A little girl grew
Up on a sheep farm
By the side of the sea,
Sprawling along the cliff.
Up on a sheep farm
By the side of the sea,
Sprawling along the cliff.
Ever since she learned
To write she wrote
On rocks for parchment practice
Letters which formed words
She was there like milkweed
Patiently feeding the caterpillars
Flinging her frustrations
Beyond the cliff: a little
Avalanche of charcoaled pebbles.
Later when she grew,
She chiseled her feelings.
In a hollow over the edge
Around which the transfigured
Sometimes gathered,
Her carved phrases piled
Like so many skulls.
J. ALEKSANDR WOOTTON 
I like this. I’d like you to expand it, maybe go a little deeper into the description, play up the metaphor. I feel like there’s something there, but I can’t quite tell what it is.
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