This story is perfectly clear,
although it exists in distraction…
a woman tells a man
whatever he could imagine.
patient wait through winter
the window with its advances
an invitation, unsure she’s taken
The lie of springtime always
Comes back
“the roses are ready,” she’ll tell him,
though she’ll be slow to greet.
every full year since childhood,
her hair, as if from a loom
weaving romance to
the length of her saddened feet
her white body everywhere
no flowers wilting anywhere
to capture someone keen
as she is soft,
the task of forming a crown
of roses put off.
the daydream, the prayer
this year again
breath rises, it’s exhale goes anywhere
depth in a shallow puddle
like a mirror staring with only a glance
this hopeful year for romance
the year for hopeful happenstance
What she doesn’t know is that
She is ripened without a mirror
To miss that and still see clearer
She is ripened without a mirror
The fixation, a story of clear distraction
Of no crown of roses where they belong
In a springtime of no action.
Empathy is Poetry 