wildflower

inside of her

poached the absolute necessity of change
the pulling of her youth. like the instinctive urge
of a six-year old for an impromptu
hair-cut. standing on phonebooks
to see herself in the mirror.
dead hair falls
to the floor like molted feathers
the shade of her adolescence.
the dirty blonde sun
she so carelessly holds
in her hand.
not a care, not a worry.
i can't think of a more honest way of living.
yet her illicit heed coaxed only herself
the lone wildflower
standing in a wrought field
allowing the breeze
to unravel her mind
releasing into the air the gaiety
she so keenly embodies.
through her wild eyes
her wild mind;
i see her corolla
unprotected and bright
not a cloud in the summer night
to shade her beauty.
all she asks is to dance like a child
beneath the soft sound of her breath
like a secret
or like a promise
both of which her mouth never speaks.
she's never heard
of war
or of death
only thoughts of star-gazing
in bloom, teacup vision
unkempt and alive.