report card

she's an odd kind of dreamer
tries out different storylines for size
imagines the forks in a highway she's already driven
can lose direction, focus, creativity if the weather's bad
will find noises frustrating
will be distracted
will be incensed
will not be lucid
so she will lose track of time
whole months, gelatinous
the skein of her thoughts knotted, woolly, almost irreparable
her body a dull mass of minor-key questions
her breath, shallow and intemperate
and her desk will be the only solid thing
she'll feel close to, its hard, square
exactness, the right angles, the way
it never apologizes for its size
she will align herself for weeks at a time,
a season even, bind herself
to the kind of imagination borne
of solitude and half-despair
easily wooed by the shadows,
the unforeseen, the face behind the mirror,
she is not always to be relied upon for good humor
she will forget there are others in the room
she will make a mess out of a puddle
can trip on twigs, small stones, her words,
will keep secrets, macroscopic undoings
just bridling under her skin
she will contain herself yet
unlatch so easily
explode, then disassemble
she will peter out and disappear if you let her

but
if you tell her you will not be leaving
that despite her great efforts to widen her berth
and eliminate the possibility of anyone touching her
if you tell her you will not be leaving
there will be these breaks in the weather,
grand swaths of honest sunlight
bright, undulating fields
emerging in new growth
and she will be unable to resist them,
will hover like an agile bird
in that glorious reprieve of warmth
will not hesitate to quiet the flapping of her wings,
will not hesitate to close her eyes to catch the breeze
she will gentle her arms to her sides
and fall to the earth like a feather
soft, lovely, full of forgiveness and easy hope
and she will let herself be still
she will let herself be loved
she will let herself be beautiful
she will let herself free.