Poem

I light a candle
and watch the shadows
of dried flowers
on the wall.

Aren't they supposed to dance,
these shadow plants?
Shouldn't they flicker
in unison
and sympathy
to my bleeding heart?

Lavender.
It figures.
What with the frumpy satin
bridesmaid gowns
and old lady talcum
powders..
I wouldn't expect much
in the way of
compassion.

But the orange balls.
(How else to describe them?)
Of natural fiber and formed
against the
high
and
unjust expectations
of beauty.

I wanted more from you.