Shooting Star on the Street

She was tree-tall, fair
with shooting star
hair

she couldn’t sleep
on the street
that night,
with bare feet

once a forest
would rock her
to sleep
– not concrete.

She laughed
at the bird
and the song
she heard

and I gave
her some change
to keep her out
of the rain.

How did a girl
with shooting star
hair
ever end
up there?

Where is she now-
did she find a way out

or is she back on the street
trying to sleep
in bare feet?

Dear readers, I had a long talk with a homeless women this morning who inspired this poem. She was intelligent and pretty, and I just kept thinking- how did she end up on the street? She had been homeless for three years, and it was too cold to sleep the night before, outside on the streets of Cambridge, England. I bought her a hot chocolate- what can one do?

 

 

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Wild Garlic

Whistling,
she carries wildflowers
and wild garlic
stains her sleeve.

She is not
from the city

I stare
at the white blossoms
caught in her hair.

My shoes
on the pavement
her hair blows wild.

Songbirds chitter,
pip, squeak
in the bordering trees

in a startling thunder
of wings
they fly.

Her laugh
takes to the sky.

She, an earthed breeze
in a close London square.

I stare
at white blossoms
caught in her hair.