Spin, spun, span the world in her fingers. No wheel is too small, no metal too fat, no dwarf too short, for her to guess what lies inside each, hidden and frozen.
She knows her purpose before she’s even born — who else among us is so lucky? *
She’s not shut up in a tower like some. Her hair doesn’t matter. Her voice either. If she had wings of a bird, she would only use them to fan herself cool from the mutation’s heat. * There are days when all she tastes is the dust of sun. It grits the needles of her teeth, splits the seam of her lips. The goose licks her dry. Only she knows the secret of its golden egg.
* When her work is done, she spends afternoons lying on the wooden floor pulling the leftover bits of straw from the cracks, stroking each shaft soft, marveling at the downy glow, every lonely and perfect golden strand.
About This Poem: Busy day. Four-minute ramble poem. Hah! The idea came from the above quote, which my friend Jason Mashak had on his Facebook today. I don’t know why. I didn’t ask. Just took the idea/image and forged ahead.
About Poem-A-Day: For the month of April (National Poetry Month), I’ve signed on to write a poem-a-day (eeks!). To make it slightly easier on myself, my rules are that I have to write each poem in fifteen minutes or less, and that I have to post it here on the blog as soon as I’m done. No edits. Just rough. Raw. Right out of the gate. (Of course, if you’re playing along, I hope you’ll post a link to your poem in the comments here — mainly because I’m selfish and I want to read them!)