the sunflowers droop
their golden heads, shedding their
silky petals. Life’s a simmering kettle
kept on the stove. Why do women

settle for weeds, and not hold out
to flower? Why is the sun playing hide
and seek? And the moon can't turn the other
cheek? The grass has turned to straw. Winter's

only splintered and not a thing
has thawed! I look out at the day as
a rerun, just like the men. I swear they're all
spun from the same reel. Where are the men

of steel? Have they all run off
the horizon?  No surprise then that I'm
solitary and bury my head in my poetry. Not like
my clothes, it fits me. I take the pen over

the rose. Spilled ink over thorns. I don't shrink
as I do in prose.  It's my link to the world and grows.