I could grow again,
like a vine,
in extensions of greys,
whites and browns,
like bales of hay
tumbling down
vanity's walls,
I can grow,
in covered up spots,
no one will check me out
at the shore for now,
I can grow,
rampantly
forming balls of wool,
bathed in technicolor dye,
fuscia and mauve,
the patterns of sweaters,
and pipedreams for a
barbershop of baldmen,
I can grow,
while the bears sleep
thru the dawns,
and nuts gather
in the pouches of squirrels,
I'd rather sleep thru it all,
but I could grow,
but then
they'd know,
these braids
beneath my arms,
aren't really blonde
like me,
afterall.............

[This message has been edited by inkedgoddess (11-05-2003 07:05 AM).]

HAHAHA, LOVE THIS.

Maree

fate is not just
whose cooking  smells good
but which way the wind blows

(Ani DiFranco)