So it was not for him, –
told Cecilia, –
these seven years
she climbed the glassy hill.
These seven years,
they were not for him
but for herself
as if she ever cared for herself.
It was more slippery
than Cinderella’s pair of squirrels.
(Shoo, shoo, – she cried, still one of them stayed),
more elusive than Humpty-Dumpty on a shelf,
more shy than bashful,
yet no better than Sleeping Beast
dreaming of sweet revenge.
You should know better, – her mother
usually told her, when Cecilia
claimed something as hers
or insisted on having her own way, –
told Cecilia. –
So it didn’t immediately occur to me
that those seven were my own,
and I dwarfed them to no purpose.
The hill of glass was also mine,
I should only undermine it
and be cured.
As for myself,
it was always there,
as for me,
I wouldn’t touch it, not for the world!