You have listened
well,
your mother's words
frame you.
You sit, ankles crossed,
hands prim and still, small
white wingless birds in your lap.
Each night
you brush your hair a hundred strokes,
then slip between
the cool envelope of pristine sheets
and dream of safe houses
where windows
have close shutters
and doors
are never left open.

Meriwythr Truefriend, Nissa 345