She sits by the cool fountain
Waiting for luck, for fate
For her purpose to become clear
She entered this house as a child
Winsome of manner and with dark hair and eyes
Like the night, they said,
Like the moon in shadow.
She learned many things
Many arts and graces
All to one end
To attract, to hold, to bring into being a dream
However, the years have passed
And the dream is still a mystery.
She has been expertly packaged
Scented, oiled and polished
Adorned with beautiful garments
And priceless jewels
For an interlude that never occurs
So she waits
Her hours, days, and years
Marked off by the soft murmur of pigeons
Whose wings have been clipped
Prisoner as she is prisoner
She is fallow
She is waiting
She is empty
Of all but purpose and training.
She would hope, but she does not think that would help
Besides, she does not understand how.
She was taught to dance, to converse, to play an instrument and sing
She was taught many secret skills
She was never taught that
Hope is its own reward;
Hope is not her purpose.
Hope is not her destiny.
She must become.
Copyright ©2015 C. Mitchell