Was there once a fairytale,
a nursery rhyme,
a fable,
about a little girl who slept
in a nutshell?
It would have to be the hardest kind
of shell, grooved and thick and opal-shaped,
uglier than a duckling on the outs.
Its hinges would of course be hid,
its latch as well in secret,
so none would know the pearl laid within.
Her downy head would be protected, upon its bed of
fur, silken silver and stripes of brown
to camouflage her tawny locks.
Her soft brown gown would curl her ‘round
as she’d rest beneath the stars.
She’d know they glowed though it was dark,
and then they’d glow for her
alone
and no creature of the forest floor,
or heights or branches, burrows or doors,
would ‘sturb the little girl.
A rest like Snow and Rip and bears
would weight her lids and fill her up
and make her glow for something more.
