Folk Art

Naïve, you called me, posh
and polished as a sampler
sewn with yarn.

Trundling clumsy in skirts,
I never got beyond the whirlygig
reeling on the unmown lawn.

It was my way to put things plain.
I stitched a heart upon my sleeve
at the elbow, where the cloth was worn.

You were cut from finer stuff.
It’s not my fault
I was drawn wrong.

Bad luck threw its weight around
my off proportions, toppled
the cock from the top of the barn.

Mine was a small world, small
and flawed. I could never hold you
with such short arms.