Wisp

I saw her in Autumn,
gutters crowded with leaves.
She had knots in her hair
and no shoes on her feet.
What a slight thing, I thought,
spare ribs with no meat.
She had almond eyes,
blue ringed with gold,
small mouth and a
dusting of dots on her nose.
She might have been pretty
if not for the rags,
dirt under her nails,
chapped skin on her hands.
Eyes calm,
drinking me like a wine.
I asked for her name,
said that was a luxury
I might know in in time.

I thought of her often.

It wasn’t until the winter was dying
that I saw her again.
This time, she is pale,
almost clean.
Brown in her hair,
book in her hands.
I asked if she liked
what she read but
she only smiled thinly.
I thought she was mad, then.
A piteous thing,
shrivelled,
in the cold.
I asked where she lived;
she said home was a privelege
I wouldn’t know ’til
I was old.

The last time I saw her
Spring was wasting away.
She had red in her hair,
looked no more lively.
I said Wisp,
why do you wither so?
She replied with a smirk
to surprise me.
She was starved
so I offered her bread;
said it’s not what
she needs to
survive.
When I blinked she was gone,
bony nymph with no song,
and I thought then
summer’s nout but
a lie.