bedtime stories.

The part, the prick,
the threaded needle.
The ring around the rosies,
around the finger-- plump and swollen
from pointing and picking and sewing gold.
She stays asleep until there's a prince to kiss,
or dirty laundry to scrub with magical bubbles
that fairygodmothers pop out of.
Vines climb, clamber up to the chamber
where she sings and naps and talks to mice.
She sits at the window and stares and sees
the fields with their farmers
and the trees sway when the wind sighs.