A tired little cottage rests on a hill,
swallowed whole by a surrounding verdant sea
of grass, of scapes that roll and sway
like Latin dancers before a throng
of viewers who match the ubiquitous gray.
A tired little woman stands outside,
her cloak on fire, her heart quite rife.
She takes her husband's hands in hers.
He kisses her knuckles; sees in her dark eyes
a million truths, a million lies.
One day he fails
to come back home. She weeps, she cries.
She's left alone.
She lolls outside, and beholds the glory
of the turbulent sea, and the flashes of light
that Zeus hurls down, to give Earth fright.
With hands spread wide, to aphotic skies,
she wills him back
and feels alive.
What ho! He returns
on a ship with sails
that billow and tear; a phantom wails.
She judged too fast, she does admit.
She feared he'd found a better fit.
But, reader, ere you criticize this girl
look to yourself; you're not of pearls.
Not a mention of race, of color, or size, but
you still imagined her skin was white.