It was her first frolic,
Raw, non-prolific, she has eyes
On the ceiling, staring at her, her feet,
     Bare, tiptoe with the wind outside, yet
Her brittle body aches, as though
     To embrace the hardest pillow,
A realization, a brand, a scar, a grand
     Turbulence, somewhere
On the inside, the fury
Of a soft rose, it's first opening,
     Too early for the spring, bitter,

          At the applause of one.*

© 2015 J.S.P.