A demand for spontaneity
rising like the smoke from a chimney---
as food for thoughts being cooked---
swirling above and inside miss Muffet,
acted like an insomniac’s deranged dream;
no loud voices, no running, jumping up high in joy;
no uninterrupted splashes of paint onto the canvas
and no going out alone on the spur of the moment.
Still cozy, comfort with curd and whey, and
her fears of arachnid memories;
the little bird on the tree sings her song,
breeze brushes its feathers,
even the tree has shed its old leaves
and poor Little Miss Muffet needs more spontaneity
to know the zest of life!