flowers

At every dawn, the lady waits,
perched atop her southern porch.
She longs for a package delicately decorated
like the ones kept on others’ doors.
A glinting bag of rubies at one,
some bread and eggs for another across the street.
Somewhere she spots a pile of glass
and at others, she notices tons of meat.
And yet all day long she does not care
about the happiness she is surrounded by.
After all, the only thing on her mind
is her empty, idle door and how
the hollowness of it makes her cry.
‘Where is my package?’ she screams,
‘Does nobody care?’ All while
the little thing makes its way to her,
completely unaware.

They grew in the Far East, 500 miles from her,
watering, sunshine, fertilizer,
changing hands in a blur. But the
thunderstorm broke them away
and took them to the far west,
where the birds picked them up
and brought them to their nest.
Little did they know,
in the middle of the night,
a passerby would grab them
to make up with his wife.
But she did not like them
and so she threw them out,
right in the hands
of the postman driving south.

This is the story of how one dawn,
her dismay was brought into control:
her package of flowers,
delicately decorated on her floor.
For, always remember, dear reader,
what is meant for you,
will never change doors.