Fruit Swing

Sometimes face painting
another persona
becomes plain,
her exaggerated giggles
don't slouch right
upon the rose buds,
(Mama noted them first -
cherishing her eleven winter's
awaited delivery)
so readily pruned
of actuality and truthfulness
ravaging an inner shadow -
still Eight Christmases young
playing on her fruit's swing,
running dough fingers across
tangerine bars.

Before memories
commence their chorus,
pleading forgiveness and
forget-me nots,
'No Vacancies'
is rehung within
her windows
moss embroidered.