The very first thing she could recall
was an improvised merry-go-round,
a swarm of fireflies 
spinning over her cradle.

The stream burbled 
from the forest depths,
shaking its rattle of white pebbles.

By the age of three,
she no longer needed a footstool
to peek over the windowsill.

In her teens,
she would blush at the treetops,
dense and ringleted like a man’s chest hair.

Middle-aged,
she cut her mane short so she wouldn’t sweat.
Nevertheless, no one was brave enough
to scale her head.

Now,
as an old woman with aching knees,
she seldom thinks of taking a walk.

Somehow she might come down—
but how could she ever 
climb back up?