Red
Red
Red rag to a bull. It’s funny how
That makes me smile inside: I think of
Your hair and how it entrances me.
Red hair; and me, stamping and snorting inside
As those shiny waves sway and swirl, heavy,
Chestnut hued and red, red.
But you are no daughter, prattling child nor
Reluctant pupil, to hang on every word and quip
And feed my misconceiving ego.
Oh no! A red rag all right, challenging the
Misconceptions and preconceptions, by which I
Habitually order my inner world.
Yet in the soft light of evening, arabesques frame
your face, elfin and mischevious; a beauty,
A feminine Puck indeed.
A woman in the outward form of elf or fiend:
(That’s my red rag to you!) but a woman all
in all and so delightful to me.
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