pour moi d’etre pour toi

look.

a little girl sleeps, dreams.
dark hair drips onto her pillow– a tangled mass, her mother says–
white nightgown, dusky brown arms and legs
skinned knees and scraped elbows
miraculously unvain of broken nails and the galaxy of freckles on her small face.

she sleeps.

glasses perched on a book, glasses she no longer needs to see magic in her world.
glasses that make her face serious
glasses to read and imagine worlds beyond her room, her house, her small island.
glasses that she has not yet learnt to hate.

she sleeps.

and dreams. sees things far away,
dreams of magic and princes and beauty and treasure–
in this world, value is given to the least of things
a cloud may be finespun silk
coloured by butterflies
sewn by spiderwebs dotted with dew, they
make a dress, lovely as enchantment for her.
small feet go bare.

dark hair slips, drips, drops over her eyes
where her glasses aren’t– what can she tie it with?

long emerald ribbons of grass? no.

a tiara is made for her, the silk
of baby hair bound back, held tight
with diamonds of dewdrops.

and she wakes
with the certain knowledge in her head that

“dewdrops can be diamonds, too.”

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~ by mechante on February 27, 2007.

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