She is strong, she is whimsical, she wears knee socks and cowboy boots and daisies in her hair. She wears glasses, white dresses and yellow tights; she wears nothing as she slips into the river. She walks on dewy grass barefoot, she stargazes in tank tops and sweaters; she wears wool and silk, braids and toenail polish. She wears red lipstick and stripes.
We meet by the river, by the flowers, by the poems; we meet on the roof, in my journal, on tree limbs. My dog knows her. She likes to hold my husband's hand. We meet while camping, at the thrift shop, strolling on rainy-leafed sidewalks, in large hidden gardens, over new recipes. We meet in books and in binoculars and in our long-stemmed dreams.
My alter ego (how I love her).