Tumble tears 'n' tots down the trod trodden footpath
that doesn't care to lead, merely follows as a sheep at my heels.
I need only point – the obedient creature darts left, right, wrong,
anywhere at all. Anywhere.

A sane girl's brain would point her finger toward fame,
alluring lashes, or a clean two-story house with a man to cut the lawn.
My voice speaks of these; my finger points.
My feet move otherwise, riveting
to the deep jungle stream,
echoing the cries of savage and heathen.
I am, I am, I am, they whisper – patter across the billowing grass.

My intelligent mind – quick fingers may be your God-given gift
but my feet are my own.