Jenny to birth. My room
a nursery. The chickens will never
come home to roost
little ladies on walkabout.

Jenny reborn, joyous in her
bleeding heart. Her cries
are smiles. Her smiles
are laughter. Her laugh
is a church bell loud enough
to rock all of Dublin.

Jenny unchanged, her hair
woven gold. She loves me still,
stray dog though I am.

Jenny across an ocean.
Jenny lost and found.