There are patches of silver scales on Maaike’s skin and grains of sand in her auburn hair. She pulls down the sleeves of her sweater to hide the scales, and shakes out the sand from her curls, the golden specks shimmering as they fall to the floor.  

can I be 

                   soft 

like the rain, 

clinging to the grass;

needles, pins, scissors

she gathers the outgrown, the too often mended

cuts apart the once whole

searches out greens, lavenders of distance