Rapunzel

Rapunzel

I’ve cut my hair.
Keep it short now.
I like the solitude.

I’ve also modernized the tower.
Installed a dumbwaiter.
It’s simpler.

The outside is overwhelming,
all that open space.
I prefer my tower,
where the sun enters my narrow
window in trickles and I get
my reality in small pieces.

Admit it.
Everyone likes a good tower,
the security it provides.
Only some prefer to call it
by another name, like career
or marriage.

The prince once told me,
You’ve made your tower
now live in it.

I do.

Cinderella Reflects

Gazing in the mirror,
Cinderella notices the accent of crow’s feet,
silvery strands among the gold.
Turning the mirror over,
she braids her hair with a sigh.


She was not happy, one could even say lonely.
No one to talk to in the castle.
Servants (except her own maid)
were considered beneath her and
Charming too busy running his kingdom.


Cinderella glanced about the room.
She had never really fit in here
surrounded by luxuries -- jewelry, ball gowns, furs.
Perhaps she had merely substituted
one type of servitude for another.


Then there were the shoes --
colors and fabrics she could hardly imagine,
maybe a few she couldn’t.


She had never admitted to anyone,
even her personal maid,
how much she despised shoes,
how even the glass slippers had pinched
made her feel confined.


She preferred to be barefoot.
Feel the earth, the ground on her skin.
The ground never lies to you.


Just like late at night she preferred to sleep
near the fireplace, in solitude,
where her maid would find her
hands and feet dirty from stirring the ashes.

April 12 - CInderella -- The Older Years

(with apologies to any fairy tale purists ...)

Prince – now King – Charming worried.

His once youthful princess seemed distracted.

Ella (liked calling her that, to remove

the Cinders from her name),

his Ella had been pining for her childhood

showing indifference, even

forgetfulness, toward the step-

sisters, -mother who had tortured her.

Ella had been discussing the issue of mice

with the servants in the castle,

although life had been rodent-free

for years. She called them “her liverymen.”

He worried that she had never truly

found happiness in this fairy tale world.

One day Ella disappeared.

When she did not join them at supper

Charming went to her room,

bits of fairy dust glittering in the corner,

he found both glass slippers under

her dressing table. Ball gowns hung in rows

awaiting the parties for which they were made.

Not Ella.

After some time, tales came to the castle

of a wandering woodsman, who saw

a handsome woman, silvery blond hair

braided down her back,

walking barefoot in the pumpkin patch,

speaking softly in the vines, now where’s my carriage …

April 11 -- Ode to the Sun

Millions of mile away

you burn.

A shiny pinpoint on

the velvet darkness of space.

Another number (G2V)

in a numbered galaxy.

But to us, not just some

luminescent ball of gas.

Our one.

Our only.

Sun.

Morningstar, with many names

Sol, Helios, Surya, Ra

you blaze and scorch and shine and kiss

and melt your way into our lives

radiating through even the tiniest chinks.

We adore you.

Nay we worship you.

All the world’s flora crane their necks

to follow your gaze horizon to horizon.

We mourn your absence

even for a night

(our satellite purveying only

cold recycled light).

And when you hide for days on end

behind a curtain of clouds,

we wither disconsolate in disappointment.

One wink from you is the road to pure bliss.

We, the inhabitants of your blue

and green planet, one of your octet,

(unless you count Pluto)

know we are different.

Why else the water, trees, flowers,

grass, bees, bugs, pollen, bacteria,

landscapes teeming with life?

Your constancy is a mask

we see through, like the little ways

you show appreciation. Your tricks charm us

like the one where you bend your white rays

over our sky in an arch or two of color

showing us the full spectrum of your affection,

or when you blaze through the gases of atmosphere

bathing us in your glow before you depart.

You hide your feelings well

and if we could look behind

your splendidly brilliant corona

we know what we would find …

our one

our only

life-giving Sun.

April 10 – Mint

Trickster!

menta spicata

Passing yourself off as an herb.

I call you menace – spearmint.

There are not enough juleps or teas

to make up for the damage.

Oh, you’re a sly one!

Starting our innocently,

tiny purple flowers

but turn one’s back

and there you are

in bed with the Italian

oregano, warming your runners

until your next conquest.

Lavender pales with your tendrils

under her skirts,

and one can’t even imagine

what happened with the French

tarragon you silently crept up on.

There seems to be no end

to your evil.

Some day I expect you to take over

the entire world.

This afternoon you’ll start

with the neighbor’s yard.