Her hair is a cotton-candy tumbleweed,

Lit on fire from below, her inner spirit

Unclenched, free flowing,

It is a colorwheel, a kite spread like a

Gull, streched out like a pancake but more

Like our mother's love.

Her cheeks are painted by Eros himself,

Rosy with want and speckled with curiosity,

Her little hands are grasping,

Dirt-dipped and petal-dyed.

She waits for me - I am not good enough

To be waited on.