My Writing, Poetry, Ramblings

Fingers Crossed

She wears a ribbon in her hair, 

red silk tying back

black waves of curls.


She folds her hands

behind her back, fingers

locking, twisting, crossing,


like she’s making a wish

or telling a lie;

“Scout’s honor,” she says,


but never finishes.


What promise might she make

if I could read between

the lines in her palms?


She searches a room

with rust-colored eyes.

I count down the 


sluggish seconds, until

they come 

to rest


on me.


She wears a black,

pleated skirt, shoes

with a slight raised heel,


a gentle


on the wood floor.


She wears a ribbon

in her hair,



it’ll catch my eye.


To how many corners

can I flit my eye

before they are lured




to hers.


My fingers flex,

lining the pad of my thumb

against the gold thread


to track her hairline.


She takes my hand, 

asks to tell me a secret.

I wonder:


What will she whisper


my ear?


Will she ever 


these two fingers?


Will she show me what she hides?


She wears a ribbon

curled at the edges;

I wish I were silk,


resting upon her head,

a crown

fit for the queen she is.


She wears a ribbon

in her hair.

Red, fluttering, gleaming,


a ribbon in her hair.


Photo by Douglas Hawkins on Unsplash