Slatternly

 

look at those hedges

untidy and blathering

 

imagine the stories they hold

deep in the worn mulch of their roots

 

verbose I am sure

as cluttered as the home they rest

 

look at those eaves filled

with last years leaves

 

unconscionable the weight

they bear to save rain from her hair

 

this woman not yet thirty

yet unsound and unworthy

 

look at her dress

a rainbow of a mess

 

how must she survive? does she not know

this world of judgmental eyes?

 

waiting to pounce on her

waiting to see

 

if she has an answer

for the who? what? or we?

 

I suppose she doesn’t care

Perhaps she is not all there.

 

or perhaps her happiness

is in a place without stares

 

a place we will never know

while using judgemental glares.

 

C. Churchill

 

for we cant see past

white picket fences or