The Surviving Scarlett O'Hara (for Audrey)

dressed for the dance

in a brocade gown,

truly slashed and splashed

together by a penniless mother,

ripping the curtains

from the window

in a bold

fury.

Scarlett, tossed about by time and place

and laughing in the face

of disaster's winds,

counting her chickens

as she spreads her wings,

eyes alert for the one

who slipped

from her shelter.

Oh, how I love your spirit

that wanton, wild

and crazy spirit;

that spirit in "go go" boots,

flying fringe

and bold mascara

on gorgeous eyes,

tossing your head

in grand gesture;

laughing at the poet's

dramatic and sorrowful tales.

The poet has not lived.

Scarlett has.

-Joy S. Barefoot

(written for my "Scarlett" friend, Audrey Riedel, whose mother copied  Scarlett of Tara and sent her off to the prom)