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Flower Child

She was the porcelain child,
dressed in
burgundy velvet
with patent leather shoes

that were never unlaced,
who carefully collected
biscuit crumbs
off her mother's tablecloth

so as to never leave a mess,
who fell asleep to
stories of Peter Pan,
dark lashes fluttering

through dreamy pictures of princesses
and
ponies. She was the child whose father
lingered on her flower patterned

bedspread at midnight, and blew
her childhood
away like dandelion down
on a whim of morning.

She was the child
who refused to wear ruffles
and lace,
yearning to grow up faster

than wild daisies
that twisted between muddy
fences
near the woodland.

She was the child who kept secrets
tucked in a
silver box beneath her pillow--
until her mother pried it open

and watched them roll across the floor
like
transparent marbles. She was the girl
who would ladle out more sympathy

on the downtrodden than their
outstretched
souls could hold, and spent
lunch money to feed

beggars by the dumpster—
befriending all those
battered in silence.
She is the woman who cannot shoulder
disrespect

in any form, whose feet have grown
tender
searching for dandelions
in evening meadows.

Karen
Kelsay is a native Californian who spent most of her childhood weekends on a
boat. Her husband s British, and she travels to England regularly to visit
family and to get inspiration for writing her poetry.  She received a
Pushcart Prize nomination for “Hymn of Autumn” in 2009, and is the author of
four chapbooks, A Fist of Roots, Song of the Bluebell Fairy, In
Spite of Her and Somewhere Near Evesham.  Some of her recent
poems have appeared in Boston Literary Magazine, The Lyric, The Christian
Science Monitor and The New Formalist.

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