Of Who She Really Is Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I’ve got the blues picking the sound
Of cherry blossoms as they wonder
How they will be
Pollinated- as there is a ghost hung up
In her,
As she is coming perpetually down a
Hill beside the lake:
It seems that she is forever stumbling to
Her knees,
As the gravestones rise above her,
And the airplanes tip their wings:
There is nothing mortal that can save her-
All the barrettes of flowers in her hair,
But as a little boy you can climb up inside
Of her and hear her whisper to
You of who she really is.