Blue marbles in her sockets

matching the tone of her robe

and the tinting of her wings - 

• invisible to all those who’d rather not believe in her.

Sunshine clearing the fog,

solar eclipse beams down

on all of your gleaming smiles,

bright-eyed like you once were

with ice cream dripping down your chin;

sweatshirt catching all the sprinkles

at the zoo in your open-toed sandals.

She sees you now, hoping the new

blooms will boost your mood.

Frogs croaking down in her creek,

pixie dust twinkling like stars

in the navy night sky.

Tonight she’ll rest on her bed of petals.

The nectar, sweet -

• drunk on it like you are

on the ink-printed papers.

Who she is - - who she’s always been,

is someone you might only remember

if you have the capacity to imagine.

Lilypad, she smiles at the sunrise.

Her margaritas are made from

the crushed pollen of daisies;

lemon zest to you.

Everything is more magical to her.

Defenestrating pebbles when she’s trapped,

trying to reason with you

in urban, skyscraper castles.

The trees call her back to them -

• springtime water splashing.

When you grow, move to cities,

you become that old, dry riverbed;

you don’t live in the palaces

that you once dreamed of…

she is who you used to be.