like a poem, she is waiting to
be written, her peasant dress
brushes across the coffeehouse
floor, swaying like jazz in the fall
light, like emily dickinson, she carries
a world in her brain, and rivers in
her speech, she feeds on the
food of starlight and blessings
her body, like an elegant reed
tells a tale of fall, she leaves
behind a scent of oranges
she is one, but her might
stares down armies and she
stops them…
how this angel stops woe!
like mary, a jazz tune sings
praises of her
how like her eyes, could a
child of the dawn, hold peace
how she could catch a leaf
in her hand, and she could become
a poem….
*Kelly noted that a certain barista inspired her poem…as if
Emily Dickinson was a hipster chick.
Grey Sparrow Journal 