A finger of wind writes her name
In ashes from dragonish burned coal.
No one could decipher the ashen tongue
Or transparent snake skins curled in dune grass.
Gold summer sun enters
The oak through many doors
Yet cannot touch her at all
She who lies dreaming
Of cold water drawn up
Gushing until her pail can hold no more.
No more to enter her house
The house sun enters by day
And through the curtains
Sometimes the strawberry moon.
She lies in a dark deep ravine
Day sunset and night.
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Love ya!
Jane
Ron