She has always fought it down,
that subterranean dwarf
that rises up.
She has tried to be
the keeper of perfect cottages,
perfectly embellished.
She fails.
Something stays her hand.
She is a surly
baker of gingerbread,
maker of wreaths.
She aches for the mines,
dark cavernous places
where the pick works on the rock
and the rock resists.