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.