When she came, they told her to be perfect. They told her she was meant to sit like a doll in a pretty glass box, with a shallow smile painted on her face. She, however, was a child of the wind. She ran. She came home with dirty knees, ripped dresses and windblown hair. So they scolded her, but she ran faster, trying to get away from her keepers. They were worried, for she had ideas. A village full of free and intelligent woman was not something that could be tolerated. They held onto her harder. Forced her to sit. Taught her an empty smile. Put her in fancy dresses. Told her she was meant for the dusty confines of the parlor. She grew sad, missing her wild kingdom so one night she left. She stole silently to the true place she called home. The place where she was truly queen. The moonlight was her crown, and the starlight her gown. The wind was her perfume and her subjects where the loyal reeds that bowed before her. Her palace was the night sky and her gems were the cherry blossoms that fell gently into her tangled, wonderful, coffee-colored hair. Then she ran, wind in her hair, dirt on her knees, rips in her dress and glorious freedom, because she was perfect.