Muse

A girl presses her hands to the sunken earth beneath her feet

To glance at the world upside down

And as she rests on her head,

Her feet fall back,

And she tumbles to the dry grass below.

Standing to the side sits a woman-bordering maid,

Studying the small girl stoically,

Almost with disdain,

In her neat spring pattern dress,

Which brushes her ankles.

In her lap lay the daily edition of the paper,

Moving with the breeze so slightly.

Her hands shake with a mild arthritis,

And her face is far too old to be kind.

As the dark shadows from trees pass over both witch and child,

Neither moves from the hazy clear sky.

Spiteful of the youth of her body,

The girl sprawls out and muses her thoughts,

While a maid stares in quiet envy.

The end is much too far to reach,

Always ahead or behind,

Intangible and forbidden as age is fleeting,

And time is irretrievable.

Somehow, they lose sight of life,

And it seems to pass them by,

Soaring over their head like a dayfly.