tall enough, for now

she let a dreamer measure her height
against the staircase, always counting
one more stair. and when she (smaller
than most girls, if you incorrectly thought
most girls were obscenely tall)
stopped growing up, she stretched her arms out--
but her hands were to small to
catch the edges of her silver-shade sky.
all wiry curls, always looking through,
there is an unexpected hue that shows
up in her hair under the Northern Lights.
if you can catch it, keep it. you earned it.
mama didn't raise no fool, she let a small
one with quick feet grow up in the East bedroom.
there's a record of her anarchy scratched into
the underneath of the windowsill and a mark
of triumph under the fifth stair.