A favonian gloom to the air
Formless spirits dancing
In a mockery of spring
While a child sits quietly
Purpled arms weakly resting
At a table holding a feast
What hair is left in a queue
That rigging fails to conceal
Speed inconsequential now
No spells to help her heal,
Just the tender touch
And hypocorism holds her here
While the spirits dance.

Laura R
3-29-03