She is eighteen.
The color of her hair is iron.
It is heavy as if weighted.
Her eyes are the color of lead,
Or of winter in the Atlantic,
Or of coastal slate rock,
And bright as ice.
Her metal under massive stress
Holds. She is hard
Enough. Though she seem like a bird-
Green winged, delicate,
Given to air, definite-
Or like a pale flower,
A lily cut, single, pure-
The aqua Pacific,
The humid air of the tropic,
This Eden island,
Do not prosper her kind.
And she has gone,
Sadly, almost alone,
Taking her luck
North. She will not come back.