Winsome Windsong
She only spoke when the wind blew. Magnolias shushed
and hushed at her, but she'd carry on, there in the wide
green shade, rebellious, or indifferent to the rasping of
wide waxy elderwhispers about the way things are done.
We'd sit for hours, me waiting for a breeze to listen to -
her for one to ignore. She never said a word to me
but I heard every one, never considered it was inconsiderate
to eavesdrop - either she didn't mind or admired my innocence
my ignorance, or the arrogance of a child who, unwitting,
propagated her belief in bucking the system.
Poetry
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