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That young and Eastern princess there,
engrossed in silent reverie,
and languid in her garden chair,
does she now dream of Araby?
And sip spiced wine in sun-flecked shade
in manner told by Omar K.,
or can it be but lemonade
imbibed by her this cloudless day?

No princess she in pensive pose,
nor houri from a foreign clime,
but Sheila in exotic clothes,
who dresses up from time to time;
indulging then in make-believe
while in her garden all alone;
there magic fancies does she weave
to fill a world all her own.

For thirteen is her happy age,
and innocence her blissful state,
content with life’s initial stage,
her soul with childhood’s joys elate:
still fairy tales her mind engage,
to Wonderland the open gate:
a princess now she’s pleased to be,
tomorrow, what identity?

T. C. Hudson

© T. C. Hudson.
This work may not be reproduced without prior permission of the author.

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