Wild plum thickets grow

Along the ditch beside the dirt road,

And little girls know

By the time they're two,

How to shinny through the grove

Without the thorns scratching 

Up their clothes, or their bare arms

And legs.

But it begs the question,

The hot sand sparkling on her tan feet,

Will she ever be more at home in a hut somewhere 

With endless chores, like her mom,

Than she is out here, 

With a warm plum on her tongue,

The canopy of heaven up over her bed,

A crown of thorns and summer green plum leaves on her head,

With her butt right square on the ground?

Somehow an older, more mature,

But never wiser version of herself

Inside her, tells her, no,

No, she won't.

-jenn