Ruth Z. Deming

The backyard swung with
barely blooming forsythia,
lilacs that zoomed toward the sky
and trim boxwood bushes that
smelled like freshly-brewed coffee.

She came out the backdoor
which slammed like a toy drum,
then spread out her blanket
on the cold wet ground.

The night was dark. Hansel and Gretel
would never find their way home.
She lay down with a shiver in her flannel pajamas.

Up in the sky, like glimmering dots of
pearls, she saw what she was looking for.

A field of stars. All of them.
The Milky Way, Orion, Ursa Major.
She didn´t know their names. Nor
did she care.

Up she flew and tiptoed from one pearl
to the other, feeling the cold breeze
in her hair. Someday I’ll live up
here, she thought. And they’ll
name me The Dancer.
The Silver Dancer with pearls in her hair.