Her laughter pumps the gas, dumps the clutch shakes and rattles from each intersection Her wet feet leave monster tracks long damp claws arching across the cement Her hair grows brambles collecting thorns and twigs with the best of bushes Her senses, corvid, snatching up dropped coins, pencils, paperclips Her tongue unfettered, butterfly breath reels with snips of story and songs Her eyes hold drops of honey, sticky sweet lashes follow the sun sunflower cheeks blush cardamom on yellow velvet glow butterfaced with dandelion kisses
Rough, regular under hand, stubbornly slate, unchanged unmoved. if her soul is a garden there is a cinderblock there holding down the sunflowers, along with the grass at her core, it grows roots, but no moss.