Some are born with ancient souls
In little girl vessels
Others have foolish hearts
hemmed inside old woman skin

I envy her unruly red, gold-flecked brown
Spring’s Muse that plays on the prairie
While the March grass burns
and verdant life creeps between her toes

With boots and roots buried in a pasture,
Her high heels and hands reach for the next rung

The wanderlust of youth plummets
to the pragmatism of years
And the gypsy heart hides
in letters and appointments

Until its cadence can’t be contained
and blood pulses
and spills everywhere

At board meetings
At church – inside bedroom walls
Her world is a creek bank that becomes wilder with age

Can one tame a gypsy heart?

Would one want to?

For my girl: “Stay wild – my wild, wild child”