after Wonderland

for a while
Alice told her tale
to anyone who'd listen.
some indulged her,
false smiles
plastered in place,
hands patting lightly
with saccharine remarks
about the wonders
of imagination.
some ignored her,
having better things
to do than
listen to a child
prattle on
about strange animals
and mad tea parties.
others still would
fix her with a
scolding glance
and tell her to
grow up.
and so she did.
it was inevitable,
really,
but slowly she stopped
chasing rabbits and
conversing with caterpillars.
she outgrew
daydreaming,
and unbirthdays,
idle imagination,
tea parties,
nonsense,
grinning cats,
and even kittens.
she was never late
nor lost
and she stopped
speaking to things
that had no right
responding.
she forgot what it was
to fear dangers
that don't exist
and to be silly
for the sake of silliness
and laugh at nothing
at all.
she grew gardens
but did not tend them
herself
nor did she walk
through them,
straining to hear
the shy whisper of pansies.
a deck of cards
held no magic for her,
and when she drew
the Queen of Hearts
she thought of
a royal flush and
never of a flushed royal
braying for her head.
she gazed in mirrors
to scrutinize her own image,
thinking of boys,
and not of what
might lie beneath.
she traded
her innocence
for experience
and was yet young enough
to think it a good deal.
and life marched on
without the March Hare.
and then one day,
towing two tow-headed girls
home from play,
just past the park
in the middle of a path
sat a handsome
white rabbit.
she paused, girls squealing
in delight before
she hushed them softly.
the rabbit
fixed them with a steady
gaze, twitched
its nose,
and flicked a pristine ear.
the children read
the invitation
and tugged
at the hands holding
them back.
facing three
pairs of pleading eyes,
something inside her
stirred
and for a moment
she half-remembered
the wonders
she'd once known.
nodding once,
Alice smiled
and let go.