Stand tall, with your arm
s stretched high above your head.
You are fueled by the iced brew,
of this morning,
black like your netted tank top.
Hunch over now, and your hair
falls softly, breezing like
Rapunzel’s braids on a willow.
The flute sings as you will sprout once more.
To secure your petals would assure
another visit to your meadow of smiles,
but for now, I must refrain.