The Adventures Of Action Woman and Emotionally Overwhelmed Poet Barbie

She dressed like every day would be an adventure.
Shiny, sensible shoes, fit for running from doom,
and a jacket, with lots of pockets,
that always ended up carrying my lip balm and sovereign blues.
I used to wake like the slow, daunted dawn of Winter,
but with her,
I would rise before the summer sun had had her breakfast,
planning for adventures,
in the most unprepared kind of way,
because adventures are hard to have in petticoats and primark pumps.
She was braver than me,
bruised, grassy knees and calves carved by treadmills,
that I wrote sonnets about from the safety of a picnic blanket,
under the shade of the small leaved lime that had spread her wings over us.
All kinds of adventures,
paranormal investigations,
paragliding (I watched that from the beach, but it still counts),
with my girl, who was ready for anything,
including all the affection I had saved up all my life,
looking for the right recipient.

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