her time has not yet come, for the sunflowers head
is bowed in reverence to this season of snow angels in the
ashes of cigarettes that went long ago
she saves her good wine for nights like these and
many say its too late in the season, but she learned how to
ration hope, when the bread lines went long ago
on this night, she sees the world as a gypsy
camp that god fled ten thousand seasons back, uncorseted, his
shopping cart missing a wheel, the haste--
he left behind so many things that she can never love.
still, he left behind some miracles.
