perhaps, perhaps a fleeting day
with the bristle of leaves
washed ashore by a brave,
brave young wind
like that of stirring sirens
spurred like a screeching raven
lost in another sunset day,
then, a momentary stall in
another alcove,
perhaps one day the leaves and grass
frothing at her feet will kiss
the sore, sore bruises inflicted by
weariness and travel,
a faucet, perhaps, to water the roots,
to quench the thirst of listlessness
and the parched corals of her crackling soul
fossilized to crunch like stone, grinding each
passing morn with no living recollection
of warmth pressed close to her body,
encompassing her bare backside,
where ghouls will no longer stalk in her shadows,
plant the faucet, channeled with the tug of war
like an ocean's embrace,
that of passion and despair,
of reckless delight and vengeful tempest,
that of relentless tug to kiss the roots
of majesty's feet, queen's skirt bristling
that of sea froth and sandy dunes, of
huge rooted trees and laughter
as grandiose of mountains
bursting through the mists,
this small girl has much to learn,
something about a faucet to
water her small alcove,
something about knowing that the grasses
and roots are all she knows,
until the wind decides to carry with her
to make another home,
so her feet are no longer sore,
to nestle next to the ocean,
to be kissed every waking morn