Dawning Creations

Frankie said she was unearthed in a strawberry patch.
It made sense when you took her in.
Her face was covered in mud
Her hair caked with bramble and dirt.

She ran like feral children do,
Often alone but often standing out.

She didn’t choose to be alone.
She didn’t choose to be Strawberry.
Try as she did, she just didn’t fit.

Her curly hair bounced and stuck out
Too dramatically.
Her muddy face and dusty dirt laden skin
Left an imprint no matter which way she danced.

Though, she changed shape as she danced through her day.
Trying to be small,
and to tone her features down.
Twisting and turning,
Brushing away the dirt and twigs,
and monitoring the bouncing tendrils,
it would never be enough.

The cockeyed faces
and mocking grins didn’t slip past Strawberry.
Without them having to say,
she knew she couldn’t stay.
As a shooting star blazed brightly,
she slipped through the crowd.
…

Frankie said she was unearthed when found.
Hand pulsing through the ground.
and lifted to the sky.

The next that shown through
were the tendrils of messy curly locks
All tangled with dirt and twigs and small pebbles.

They didn’t know what she was ,
What SHE was CAPABLE of…

With eyes opening for the first time,
She gasped and reached out further.
The people ran.
They didn’t appreciate the crazed hunger in her eyes.
They couldn’t withstand those wild arms reaching out,
her zest for life.

Though, she changed shape as she danced through her day.
Trying to be small,
and to tone her features down.
Twisting and turning,
Brushing away the dirt and twigs,
and monitoring the bouncing tendrils,
it would never be enough.

Knowing she’d never acclimate,
She tucked herself away.
Solemn she was, Frankie says, that day.
She began to wander, down trodden paths
and into woods.
She made refuge high up in a tree
and watched the people live.

For a short time, she grew forlorn.

But two years passed and autumn returned.
She ventured from her tree and saw you
gazing in the field.
She stepped towards you, uncertain of what you’d do.

Frankie says, Strawberry was unearthed
in a strawberry patch a midsummer,
from a long time passed.

It made sense when you saw her.
Her face was always covered in mud
Her hair caked with moss and grass and bramble
She ran like feral children do,
Often on her own but often standing out.

YOU took Strawberry by her hand
And both ventured deeper into the fields.
You patted mud on your cheeks,
and knotted twigs in your hair.
And your eyes held a crazed hunger.

You could no longer bear anymore of the SAME.

Strawberry ran like feral children do,
Often alone but often standing out,
Now you do too…