Her thoughts
grow like weeds
through swaying reeds.
In her head
exists a garden
as bright and as varied
as the tulips of Amsterdam.
Each canal lined with bikes,
the water flowing from one to the next.
If not careful, though,
that mind will overflow,
overgrow with the seeds
of past ill deeds.
She sits still now,
thumbing through her prayer beads,
pleading for the protection
of some modern-day Diomedes.