Where Is the Girl?

Do you know that soul behind drooping lid?
Where is the girl who flew on wind and hooves?
Never mind falling off into the mud.

Where is the curious girl who cooked grass?
 
Has anyone seen Santa Claus?  Patiently
we waited in the bathtub for shiny
bicycles, red for her, purple for me—
Back and forth we rode an eternal stretch,
stealing into watermelon patches
for a summer, or four; till bikes we ditched
in favor of winged creatures.  Equine hearts
beat private paths through cattails and stubble,
noble beasts and high-stepping young ladies.
 
What of vanished days in the hay-bale fort?
of poker tournaments and cigarettes?
Fine wine and Italian boys happened.

Can you feel heat still beating in the breast
that stood on its own, not wanting support?
Whose thin lips are those, parched, once kissed richly?
What of suntanned arms that rocked the babies?
Little fingers curl ‘round see-through paper
skin exposing trails that lead to the heart.  

What good is a mind filled with facts that leak
onto the pillow? 

All gone is the father who taught the girl
to ride amber waves all the way to town,
to be a woman among men, but of
the freedom in grain and eighteen wheel rigs?

Dreams come in the summer days before time,
but blow far in dusty wind, then arrive
back in the arms of the sun for a spell.

I long to catch a glimpse of the song bird.
She took flight too soon, the Angel who sings
to angels.