She drowned her nouns
In a glass overnight,
To keep them moist,
To keep them bright.
And when she woke up in the morn,
Adverbs had sucked them apart.

She caged her vowels
In a drawer by bed’s side
To weep aloud, and rant
At consonants unbound.
And when she went later to check,
They had all escaped her grasp.

She shelved her adjectives
In a dressing stand high,
Shut tight ornate door
And vacated her head.
And when she reopened the door,
They fell upon her and rephrased her mind.

She ate her alphabet,
One, two, three, four,
Then added a score;
Two ran for the door.
And, when she was full, she burped,
And gave birth to worlds of words.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 6/6/04