mother once told me
       i am like a morning glory;
       beautiful blue in the early hours
       of the sun and shy purple in the
       hot afternoon. she told me
i
       am a blushing primrose,
       hiding my face behind my leaves,
       or a dancing daisy, lively beyond
       all hours of the night. father,
       on the other hand, tells me i
am
       a tinkling flute, shimmering and
       disappearing in the breeze, or perhaps
       a rumbling sousaphone, loud and with
       an in-your-face attitude, my huge mouth
       open for all to see. then there's me,
the
       little girl with no words to her name,
       prancing in fields of wheat singing silly
       songs off key, twirling like a child with
       my skirts floating in the wind. gravity
       can no longer hold me; i long for the
sky
       to reach down with huge hands and
       claim me as his own, pluck me from the
       ground like a bad weed and wring me out,
       clutch me softly, and teach me to
       rumble with lightning. he
and
       i will reign over earth together and i
       will smite all those little ants who
       kept me tethered like a panting dog
       outside the store. they will never hold
       me again; i am no longer the girl with
the
       plum cheeks and the flower petal ears,
       nor the daughter with an orchestra at
       her fingertips. i am loud in the sky,
       i am my own orchestra. and sometimes
       i will drift to the ground and dance in the
rain.