the brush quivered with the
gentle anticipation growing,
never slowing in her hungry
tummy
she clawed through
thistle and thorn to get a peak
of that pale blue reflection
coercing her towards the shore
the fairies sang of the divinity and
omnipotence stored in the ripples
and if you squint hard enough,
they giggled, there’s surely more
she cast her gaze down to god
and saw thorns trapped in
strands of hair and vines
twisting around with scorn
