Wednesday Morning Scrutable Poetry: "Girl in a Tree"

Her legs were long
And scratched with thistle.
She had a deft,
Enchanting whistle.

Her hands were slim
But strong for lifting
Herself to trees
When winds were shifting.

And there she'd sit
And watch the birds,
And nibble twigs,
And juggle words.

And there she'd lean
And whistle clearly,
'Till she was God--
Or very nearly.

By Frances M. Frost, now largely forgotten.