She doubts the flow of love

will ebb her way,

she looks away when cautious glances

meet her gaze,

and soothes herself

with praise

for Godliness and virtue.

She searches books

and music with a

doting fervour,

refusing to allow

her awkward look

and girlish gait to

unnerve her.

Those soft, brown eyes

like limpid pools

within her face,

and sloping brow

that comes natural

to her race,

are not adept

at beauty, nor

of beauty

inspiring,

there will be for her

no careful hand

or loving look,

admiring.

She is tender in her

wants and needs,

secreting them in places

where they cannot

adduce shame

from other, well-made

faces.

She buttons up her

soft white vest,

she slips on her

white sandals,

she says her prayers

with catching breaths

that lick the

light from candles.

She is barely

touched upon this world,

this half formed woman,

malformed girl,

and yet the heart

within her breast

protests and yearns

for love as well.