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.