The wind pipes and hoots her cries of joy.
The trees twist and quiver as she passes.
She tears the hair of hilltops
and ruffles the fur of a cattail marsh.
The sailor man takes up her offer,
a sup and turn round the ballroom,
where's the harm?

In the middle of a spirited polka
she flips her petticoat,
tosses him over her shoulder,
and three days hence
he drags himself up on a deserted beach,
aching sick, bloodshot and bone weary.
Of such breezy ladies are sea-stories told.

Speak no ill of her.
She's a harsh mistress
who hears your grumbles
and will not hesitate
to slap your cap off,
drive cold sleet down your back,
and sting you with the granules of Adam.

8:20 PM PT: This is the first in a series of four poems.

Three Turns of Seven in the Earth
Three Turns of Seven in the Water
Three Turns of Seven in the Fire

Originally posted to ruleoflaw on Wed Oct 23, 2013 at 04:51 PM PDT.

Also republished by Badger State Progressive, Rebel Songwriters, Kitchen Table Kibitzing, J Town, and Community Spotlight.

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