"I am not a princess." and let her
Woven crown of purple clover drift downstream.
She sat at the base of a water-logged weeping willow,
Swirling a lily pad in a reservoir of pure glass
And unpolluted grace.
Spinning in a pitter-patter pattern and translating
The tune of a gurgling creek, she sang.
Sweet mysterious little siren.
"I am one of the river-folk." a lotus-eater
Bathing in reedy depths of bottomless dew
And drying on a bed of smooth jet river stones.
She drank honey-suckle nectar and sank low
Into murky water, pulled by morose currents
Feeling tumbled and worn and authentic.
She let herself be carried.
"I am a waterfall." churning and fluid and fast
She anticipated the drop but forgot how to swim
Wait. Wait. Wait! she knew she wasn't ready
To fall rugged and hard and--oh--This is going to hurt
Plunging into bright white rapids, caught and
Pummeled by spraying adrenaline, she choked on
Mouthfuls of her washed up dream.
She sought safety on the shore.