She’s a shoe string that won’t stay tied
dares you to double knot her, pull tight,
she’ll still slip loose like a boat and drift
the currents and tides of her fancies.
You can’t pin her down like a butterfly
in a frame, not even with golden pins
she’ll grin and wriggle away.
She is an enigma, a fairy tale, a fable
with a moral at the end. Truth, fiction,
fantasy and cold, hard fact. She’s words-
worth and a p(l)ath through the fields,
a pound of wilde, a frost that burns.
(See what I did there?) And now she’s donne…
till the next poem is written in the sand.