In her day, she was a lithe little thing,
spry and slim and willowy,
and she longed, more than anything
for a miracle, for magic, for more.

She caught a notion and grew up around it.
Days, weeks, months she spent
stumped in her little stool,
tending her long, loose hair in the zephyr.

Now, she is old,
shriveled to the size of her misconceptions,
still resolutely sitting at the window side.
She knows she once reached for something,
but what, she cannot remember.

And so she remains, gnarled and hunched,
disillusioned by a green whim of fancy,
eternally waiting for
Once Upon a Time.