You would have thought
no one would notice.
She was fully lit.
No matter, for her.
 
She may have just
twirled away, anyway;
as if rolling,
upon some side,
of some imaginary hill.
No matter, for her.
 
Arms ascended, rising
toward some Ursula Minor,
like wheat ripened
by some distant glow,
full head waving, nodding
to some breeze
gently urging,
calling her just this way.
No matter, for her.
 
Blown along some hall
in some church
on some Friday night
as some one passing
noticed, thought
this almost teen,
no longer girl
could not be sustained
nor live, nor twirl
by bread alone:
No matter, for her.