Turning curls
A poem is given to you
And passed on
What good is it to keep on beating the rock
again and again we beat our fists against it
wondering whether humans and ants
and how far we have come
only to come to this
following the scent trail of the other
going where
one by thousands crowding pushing
wondering wondering about the day
how much do we understand of that grim-faced stranger?
grim now, but so soft
when she crosses the threshold her heart loosens
she finds her voice and feels beautiful
she creates
objects spun and made real
she puts voice to anger, kicks the door because she feels like it
she wears all her good clothes, the high heels and lace
makes herself a cup of tea and sits down
like a mouse with a grand plan
to save or rule world


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