Upon the surface of her life

She floated petals, casual in the light,

Reflections of the branches on the trees,

Flecks and motes of dust that sifted down,

A bit of straw, small flowers from some nearby bush.


She never let them see the depth of her,

Deep places of her secret, hidden heart,

But kept her surface petalled thick

With ovals delicate in shades of pink,

Diverting every prying probe of eye.


And, it was true, they never saw beyond

The surface where the petals, solid, lay,

But that was in her plan, was how she lived,

To keep their eyes distracted by the float

Of petals, thin and pink, and reflections of the trees.


The depths were hers alone, her private place,

Too deep for petals or reflections to descend.

But in their silent, hidden places,

In the weaving wave of patterned flow,

Her thoughts darted, quick as hatchling fish.


And she, looking up, from sanctuaried deep,

Could see the underside of petals damp,

Floating high on her silent-surfaced self

And smiled, delighted, by effective forms

Of petals imaged into ovaled shields of pink.



By Jo Anzalone 1-19-2007