Tamaracks

It’s the afternoon of the harvest ball;
the tall girls are donning their golden gowns,
twirling this way and that
coyly glancing over their shoulders
and checking their reflections
in the Three Springs mirror.
They’ve heard Jack’s coming home
to the palace just for the dance.
He’s been far away for so many months,
but whispers are claiming he’s lately
been charming the girls up north.

Everyone knows long after he’s offered his
crystal bangles to the other Cinderellas;
after they’ve preened and posed,
commanded attention in their reds and rusts,
dipped and dashed off coy kisses,
whirled around the dance floor
and out the palace door to their 12 o’clock beds,
the tamaracks will still be standing golden tall
at the edge of the dance floor
eager to be the true princesses
of the wee hours of the ball.

Bio: To count Door County as her year-round home is among Francha Barnard’s greatest pleasures; to live among so many poets, both her goad and her inspiration.