By Annette Marie Hyder
Some day my impulsivity, my spontaneity, will be the storybook red shoes that dance my feet right off of me.
I am not the handless maiden, but I might as well just be, for all the grasp I have wearing gloves of naivety.
In the courtyard of my thoughts, a tree lined twisting maze, there is an Ariadne thread. I find it in your gaze.
Sometimes given context dolls are scary things; after all, they started out as idols and the kind of gods that let you carry them are likely full of pins.
I am more inclined to seek the benediction of your smile than look for hope in talismans or relics full of guile.
In a forest full of merrow trees there is the underwater sheen of moon kissed waves that lave the very heart of dream.