A Spinster in Oz
When she doesn’t remarry,
her father calls her
an old maiden aunt,
a spinster,
spinning to earn her keep,
tapping a treadle
on grandma’s antique wheel.
Mostly, though, she likes to spin on grass,
turning slowly
during mother may I
faster
when the big kid twirls her
or when she rolls down Rose Mount Hill.
She even spins her swing,
circling up chain for a dizzy unravel.
When she jumps,
she feels like a witch swirling dust on arrival,
not Glinda the good
or the wickedness of East or West
but a fright nonetheless.
A dress.
Not shoes.
Not socks.
Perhaps a hat or scarf in winter
or a bathrobe at night.
warm
with her little dog beside her
she feels strong,
telling him,
You have no power here!
Be gone!
Before a twister drops a house on you, too!
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