A Girl Through The Glass (edit #2.2)

[ellajam]

Edit #2.2

She's set apart, she's floating upside down.
All else seems right within this verdant town,
the goats to milk and fields of hay to scythe,
deep satisfaction in a farming life —
a happy world, why does she tumble 'round?

Her feet branch out above her like a crown
but still a smile when turned becomes a frown,
why would she fret with such a peaceful life?
She's set apart

beneath her house whose roof points at the ground,
below the billow of her azure gown
her face is blank. Her empty arms are lithe
but though her husband's near he sees no wife.
Her head hangs low, in floods the first to drown.
Her part is set.



She sets her part and turns the world her way,
above each high-rise peak and alleyway
the city is her own; she plants her feet,
stance rooted deep to guard against defeat
and draws the bold to join in her soiree.

With street-smarts edging her naiveté
her pages age like slow-sipped cabernet:
tart on the tongue, bouquet complex yet sweet.
She writes her part:

to cherish but move on from yesterday,
maintain her joie de vivre, a bit risqué
but cognizant of when to be discreet.
Her husband revels in her grin, replete
upon the bed she's made; they meet halfway
within her heart.

Edit #1

Chagall Through The Glass

She's set apart, she's floating upside down.
All else seems right within her verdant town
with goats to milk and fields of hay to scythe,
together animals and men are blithe:
a happy world, why does she tumble 'round?

Her feet sit high above her like a crown
but still a smile when turned becomes a frown,
why would she fret with such a peaceful life?
She's set apart

beneath her house whose roof points at the ground,
within the wedge split by her azure gown
her face is blank. Her empty arms are lithe
but though her husband's near he sees no wife.
Her head hangs low, in floods the first to drown.
Her part is set.



She sets her part and turns the world her way,
above the city's spikes her will holds sway.
She makes the scene her own and plants her feet,
stance rooted deep to guard against defeat
she draws the bold to join in her soiree.

With street-smarts edging her naiveté
she savors life like slow-sipped cabernet:
tart on the tongue, bouquet complex yet sweet.
She writes her part:

to cherish but move on from yesterday,
maintain her joie de vivre, a bit risqué
but knowing when to be discreet.
Her husband revels in her grin replete
upon the bed she's made, content they lay
within her heart.



Original:

A Girl Through The Glass
(raised on Carroll, Chagall and Steinem)

She's set apart, she's floating upside down.
All else seems right, a thriving farming town
with goats to milk and fields of hay to scythe,
together animals and men are blithe:
a happy world, why does she tumble 'round?

Her feet sit high above her like a crown
but still a smile when turned becomes a frown,
why would she fret with such a peaceful life?
She's set apart

beneath her house whose roof points at the ground.
Within the wedge split by her azure gown
her face is blank. Her empty arms are lithe
but though her husband's near he sees no wife.
Her head hangs low, in floods the first to drown.
Her part is set.



She has the strength to turn the world her way,
above the city's spikes her will holds sway.
She makes the scene her own and plants her feet,
stance rooted deep to guard against defeat;
she draws the bold to join in her soiree.

With street-smarts edging her naiveté
she savors life like slow-sipped cabernet;
just mildly buzzed, relaxed but still upbeat.
She has the strength

to cherish but move on from yesterday,
maintain her joie de vivre, a bit risqué
but knowing when to be discreet.
Her husband revels in her grin replete
upon the bed she's made, content they lay
within her strength.

(An attempt. Both Intensive and Mild critique are invited, critic's choice. )