Written by: Cyndi MacMillan

She tries to rearrange the sunrays, calls the clouds
clutter, the Namaqualand daisies that stray her way

are worthy of slaughter, too erratic, too off-colour 
defying borders. Nightmares intrude, find her 

unaware, bleed hurts dry, sand grains are sorted 
by composition and size, though so many fail

to comply. Secrets, dozens, this paladin keeps,
their shadows bring chaos when she submits 

to sleep. Somehow she inters her cry, an art she
has mastered. Hidden, a hint of formaldehyde in

tears, for ghosts return to box her ears. Few would 
guess at the cautions she takes, how trust strains

against a thousand barricades. But love is there,
a babe pressing on crib bars, it stains sleeves, 

it fills her ribs and yet somehow, it dissolves
in air.  How could she be so misunderstood, 

defending treasures rare, restoring perfect order, 
freeing truth from falling stars, sweeping creaks 

from ancient stairs and re-gilding tarnished alters.
All she wants is peace, harmony, everything good,

and so she does more, more than she should,
schools truants, tames the wild and refuses to falter.