(someday I will illustrate this)
The golden ladder of my hair,
once enough for several princes,
is brittle now and curls around my chair
before the fire like tired smoke.
My cottage hugs the ground,
a grateful, shipwrecked sailor.
Windowless, I live alone
and have outlived my jailer.
The tower I graced is rubble now,
The sons I bore took root afar.
Once I kept a talking bird;
I have a spider in a jar.
The sunlit beacon of my hair
has dimmed to winter moon,
brittle now around my chair
before the fire, like tired smoke.