the Sunday girl,
I've heard them say,
is bonny and blithe and good and gay.
and maybe, that's just what say they.

but she has potential.
a good mind
and passion.
more than she realizes
and beyond the mere spectrums
of intersecting lips and hips.
fire.  couer rage.
enough to bare her soul
in words woeful and wicked,
rising on wings of fire
like some creature from Greek mythology.

or my mythologies.

she is growing, changing,
her thoughts are rearranging
as often as she changes lovers.
and then some.
which is perhaps why
she changes them
because they can't keep up
and she runs like a child in the meadow
laughing at their clutching hands
as they try to make it all work
but she's not ready for the steady
stability of a still-life portrait
to be hung in a hall.  not yet.
maybe never.  that's her decision.

freedom is just a word.

I know, in sad wisdom the truth:
you can't own the Sunday girl.
she may choose to lose the illusion
of freedom
for her own reasons
for a few seasons.
but, then again, she is the Sunday girl.
full of life, in all the impossible shades and hues,
the pinks and the blues and the darkest,
archest shades of grey that stay
just long enough for her to curl into a ball
and cry out her banshee-wail
challenge to the fates.

she is the not-dead.

the Sunday girl
she knows she owes you nothing
for the trifles you give her,
be they power and glory or immortality,
she's not the kind to bind herself
to your suppositions.
frustrating, but true for you
and for me, unless we choose to see
the world through her eyes
and realize
that this is the Sunday girl's world
and she is here to merely,
fearlessly, but not without tears,
make dreamers dream of her
and those like me, who grant immortality,
a purpose to our powers
more intimate than a kiss or a coit.

although I may wish it otherwise.


William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.