A tired little cottage rests on a hill,

swallowed whole by a surrounding verdant sea

of grass, of scapes that roll and sway

like Latin dancers before a throng

of viewers who match the ubiquitous gray. 

A tired little woman stands outside,

her cloak on fire, her heart quite rife.

She takes her husband's hands in hers.

He kisses her knuckles; sees in her dark eyes

a million truths, a million lies.

One day he fails

to come back home. She weeps, she cries.

She's left alone.

She lolls outside, and beholds the glory

of the turbulent sea, and the flashes of light

that Zeus hurls down, to give Earth fright.

With hands spread wide, to aphotic skies,

she wills him back 

and feels alive.

What ho! He returns

on a ship with sails

that billow and tear; a phantom wails.

She judged too fast, she does admit.

She feared he'd found a better fit.

But, reader, ere you criticize this girl

look to yourself; you're not of pearls.

Not a mention of race, of color, or size, but

you still imagined her skin was white.