Amy

Small to some, only 5 foot 2,

dirty blonde hair peeking out from a blue stocking cap.

Head in a book, reading or writing, lost where none can follow.

A blue, purple, black scarf tried around her waist, a tail in her eyes.

Black-rimmed glasses framing her face; left eye gray-blue, the other, gray-green.

Neck so prone to keep moving, back, and forth, back, and forth.

Fingernails so long, some might think them fake.

Fingers typing this poem, a flying dance of thought and word.

Feet widened from summers gone barefoot.

Forehead large, and scared with acne.

Lips ready, be it with poem or comment or song.

Mind as complex as it is, worlds spinning at her command.

And maybe, at long last,

a rare smile brightens her face for a second.

 That's Amy.