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?
Why would you?
For my girl: “Stay wild – my wild, wild child”