All Those Wayward Ever Afters

There is laughter 
when they think of all they 
were supposed to be, all corseted 
and silver-spoon fed with feet 
crammed into ridiculous shoes. 

Here, even the steeds are unshod 
and trail-trod, mudlucious in their 
gorgeous freedom. This forest is 
flush with both silence and song. 

Here, they choose. 

To dance alone under the stars. 
To raise ungloved hands to sky. 
To be caressed by breeze and kissed by moon. 

They’re wild things now, these 
wayward rogue princesses. They’ve 
got minds of their own and treehouse
thrones and they’ve grown quite fond 
of finding themselves silly 
with river stone skipping 
and dragon races. 

Their faces are bare as the day they 
were born, sunworn and shining with 
glee. They’ve built homes and be
-friended gnomes and learned to grow
their own gardens, all brambled and 
tangled and sticky with berry juice 
and a loose caterpillar waiting for 
conversation. 

There has been a mass cancellation 
of all balls, royal edicts and decrees. 

The parents and the princes are 
getting used to it, by degrees. Some
-times they are allowed to visit (if 
they wear their dungarees), but
they’re always sent home at moonrise. 

Shhhhh. 
That’s when the shenanigans begin, 
                                                happily. 

::
Just a normal Wednesday again, over at Poetic Asides. 😉

Advertisement