NARCISSA by Gwendolyn Brooks

Some of the girls are playing jacks.

Some are playing ball.

But small Narcissa is not playing

Anything at all.



Small Narcissa sits upon

A brick in her back yard

And looks at tiger-lilies,

And shakes her pigtails hard.

First she is an ancient queen

In pomp and purple veil.

Soon she is a singing wind.

And, next, a nightingale.

How fine to be Narcissa

A-changing like all that!

While sitting still, as still, as still,

As anyone ever sat!

The poetry of Chicagoan Gwendolyn Brooks, I've admired since I was a kid... but I only became aware of her short & sweet 'Narcissa' (written before I was born, probably) about a year after completion of my graphic novel. Her description of the child, blissfully alone, is a comfortable match with how I see Narcissa. And now she's gone home for a visit.