She's slowly come to understand
She's not the type of girl he needs;
The type of girl who doesn't heal--
The type of girl who bleeds and bleeds.

The type of girl 'can't feed a man--
The type of girl who waters weeds.
The type of girl who tries to sow
Her garden with ill-gotten seeds.

She understands just thorns will grow,
But prunes each futile plant she sees.
He tells her that he's off to wed
A woman 'can fulfill his needs.

And now she is a barren girl,
The type of girl who's on her knees.
The type of girl who doesn't heal--
The type of girl who bleeds and bleeds.

One Oregon day,
The princess awoke
To discover that outside it snowed,

So she strapped on some boots
And zipped up a large coat
To adventure the cold Oregon roads.

On the bridge was a prince
With bright smiles and kind eyes,
And he asked her, "Why doth the wind blow?"

The princess replied
With her head slightly cocked,
"Just what makes you think I would know?"

He averted his eyes
To the white sky above
And then to the valley below.

He took her small hand
And she pointed out west;
Down cold Oregon roads they will go.

I realize that one day I will cease to be,
As Keats recognized umpteen years before now,
But he knew himself and he didn't know me,
And when Earth spins without me, I'd like to know how.

Will each of my thoughts sink into living minds,
Corrupting the dreams of the children below?
Will every idea then reside in the sky,
Polluting the night with a whimsical glow?

Will my memories be seen through strangers' eyes
Who happen to walk past upon my dead hour?
Will each feeling be honed in on by passersby?
Will each beauteous moment draw up a new flower?

When death is so honest and ugly a thing,
I say truthfully, I don't want to let go.
But e'en on the large chance that death won't grant me wings,
Can I honestly say that I'd first see you slow?

The child dreamed of flight since she could first walk.

She dreamed of stepping not on earth, like the workers--
Not on workers, like the rich ones,
And not on rich ones, like the gods, no.

She dreamed of stepping on nothing.

She looked first to the stars, with a hunger.
She wanted them.
She saw the spacemen with stars in their eyes,
Stars in their pockets--
Stars wherever they wanted them.

She looked at the lack of workers, rich ones, and gods.
She looked at the quiet.
She looked at all the nothing there was to step on.

With her feet on the earth, packed into painful solidity,
She looked at them and ached.

On the sofa we lay,
On his shoulder I leaned,
And he smiled and said,
"Play me a song."

So I grabbed my guitar
And began to pluck strings,
But then paused and thought,
"This is all wrong."

What I held was a fruit,
Yellow, bruising, and curved.
I peered up at him--
He didn't notice.

I continued to play,
But it squished with each strum--
He laughed as it came into focus.