My design was made from rough hewn stone -

though I am not grown, I know

my mind is wayward, blue and airy

and my limbs are full of feeling -

my healing is a well worn book,

a lustful look, a romp beneath the covers

with a kind-hearted lover.

My solitude is dreams, in daytime

and in all the time between – I am never

here beside you, there are worlds

that I confide to.

About me all I see is an elegiac pace -

there is such still complacency

in every person’s face.

Why am I so different ?

So rough, so wild, so free?

What went wrong when I was born

that made this awkward me?

I will never be the small delight,

the lady with her folded hands

and no need to voice her hot demands.

I will be that spirit, there,

the one with flaming hair

whose mouth will move before her mind,

with social gracelessness, though not unkind.

I am a tempest of unworked stone -

feverish for company then fixedly alone.

And voluble, and worried too,then hopeful, then unsound -

tumbling, falling, rough worked stones

about me on the ground.