Her favourite colour is yellow
The colour of chicks, of marigolds and wheat.

She sees Mondays as white. Tuesdays are strong and red.
Wednesdays, an unexplainable mix of orange and green.

But she likes Saturdays best.
Saturdays are purple, not yellow. And she hopes for them to rain.

She always wishes for rain on Saturday
So she can sit and read without nothing to explain.

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She often sits by the window
And she talks to herself.

She talks without making a sound
But shaping every single word, very clearly, with her hands and her mouth.

She talks to herself and others, her imaginary friends
The ones she always carries and never forgets.

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She likes taking her time
And make everyone wait.

She has made an art, oh yes, of being late.
She smiles and does a little dance. She is not sorry. Can’t you see?

There is so much to do!
There are so many things to look into and think of!

This is because she is busy. At four, at five at ten
She is busy, always busy. There is no moment to spare.

Every second of the day taken
By the need to tell a story to those no one sees, but her.

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