Betty, batty from hormones, in a fanciful fit,
named her daughter Lavender. Husband Don winced,
but agreed. Brothers Donald, John, Billy,
and Tom were puzzled and pleased by this Sis,
who was quite like them yet not like them at all.
Each night and most afternoons Betty told Lavender
stories, sang her songs, opened books full of pictures.
In them stout hearts bamboozled the evildoers that lurked,
and rags became ball gowns glowing with pink.
Poor maids, Auroras, Swan Queens and their ilk
with true lovers, often princes, used cunning and tricks
to free castles from brambles, lift spells, smote the slick.
As happens, Lavender grew grown, moved on and away
from her mother's fine songs to live songs of her own.
She searched for a prince, found several at least,
vanquished evils and weasels, loudly scolded some trolls.
She got caught in the muck, found her footing, soldiered through.
No castles came calling; never mind
she made homes.
With mostly good luck, Lavender aged right up to old.
Though her body got cranky,
she kept close to heart
the fluttery trills
and persistent whisps,
of brave stallions,
wize wizards,
dances,
feasts,
and folk
loving out loud--
as dead dragons smoldered
in heaps on their hills.