Her mother said she only ever
could rely on family, 
misty-eyed recollecting
isolation, the inescapable 
feeling she was a 
smaller species than others
she had met.  Her mother was 
taught by her parents, of course,
both of them djins released
from bottles, booming 
names with cloud-trumpets
and opinions pulled from sandstorms.
Magic was full bright but
sadly mathematical with them.
They felt small, too, probably 
taught by their parents. 

Their daughter
was different.  Of all the 
DNA combinations 
possible from two tempests,
her recipe twisted around 
itself and dreamed.  She was 
flowers in a music garden, white
eyelet and patent leather shoes,
unruly red hair, magic 
filtered soft through the evening.
That was her destiny, poor girl.  
To them, she was smaller still, though 
she could bellow a pipe organ
beautifully. In the end it was all djin
air and it made its way home 
to the bottle.