Every Saturday night,
the girls once again don
the crowns, but looped
round (and round and round)
their arms as hula hoops
spun in a whirl of
rubysapphirediamondgold.
War stories are told and
fairytales spun, too,
and the rescued dragons
know just what to do
with the cast-off
(ridiculous) high
-heeled shoes
(they’re delish.)
They also make a fine
dish of elegant gowns
and they spangle themselves
in jewels and jade
and unstrung pearls.
At moonrise, they howl
(the dragons, the girls)
and thank the sky
and their whole new wide
world that freedom is sung
in bare feet and loose lungs
and the echo of voices
in trees.
Tomorrow, they’ll have happy
-ness hangovers, and take
their tea in bed
with satisfied smiles
and the occasional inelegant
s n e e z e.
::
In November, we poem. Catching up today, backwards.
Whimsygizmo's Blog 