Expectations

And when the trees start to shake outside,

and my hair is freshly curled into too-tight ringlets

(I feel like a doll),

my coffee is already cold (of course),

you expect me to burst with symbolically rich words

that thwart your senses and stop time

encasing you in a mystery of thought

trying to decipher my hidden meaning

Because I have to be referring to the mystery of trees

and the community

the sense of peace they bring along with greenery

Ancient Druids come to mind

because their trees were holy

and wholesome are my words

void of skin deep meaning

No poem can just be referring to the beauty of the trees

or how my hair feels on my neck

when I sleep in my silk robe

No poem is that idyllic

where highlighters aren't required

and text books don't outline hidden metaphors

made for stirring our brains

to rattle them like the wind is rattling the trees

My door is open

So I hear it clearly

and the incense is burning

so my senses aren't weary

Yet as I slip on my high heeled shoes

(with no particular destination in mind)

I retaliate with my own harsh words

about how the trees are actually shaking the wind

With their sturdy branches

and foreboding limbs

It can't just be beautiful

It can't just be simple

And time can't just stop and let me enjoy my coffee

because my hair needs to be curled

I need to walk out the door

I'm already late

And my words are already meaningless as the stanza comes to a close.