She was a blank slate in the womb whereupon sperm and egg met. She fertilized, did divide, embryonization, escaped eradication. Thrust into a world of theories, ideology, cults and theology. She had her father's eyes, but as she grew she began to look more like her grandmother. Short, stout, stubborn forehead and lips. Last generation Metis, watered down by her freckled n' cream mother.
A poet. Like her Nana, wrote of nature's words, her outer world as she scribbled onto blank pieces of paper. Thanks to God, praise of nature and its wonders. Wandered on the shore, waded in the water, waited for words from the Creator. Creator only spoke to her in forms of poetry from the rustle of dead leaves, foaming white caps, and the scrawl of ants on the bark of a tree.
A canvas of skin. Scars from various points of life most on or near her wrist. This one from New Year's Eve with a cat resting on her hand; the sound of crashing pots and shouts scared him and scarred her. The other hand displays o