Ribbon

you once held a bouquet of
flowers, ribbon, lilies and
tulips in the porcelain winter

the lilies made me sneeze, and the
tulips were careful to stand
up straight, bleary-eyed children
at roll call. but you, i didn't
pay any attention to you.

your smoothness, the fineness of
your grain said, "Royalty." so i
couldn't bear to throw you out
with the stem clippings, the fallen petals.
the cellophane and tissue paper
that you once held rustled as
i hurried them out my door, but
you lay limply on my desk.

i had no use for you, ribbon,
just like i had no name for your color:
not red enough for crimson, too
pink for magenta. i can only
name you after fruits, raspberry,
perhaps. my lipstick tells me you
are watermelon, but i rise to
defend your complexity to a marketer's
imagination. a rich shade of pink, warm but no
shocking.

it is your fortune that you are
long, serpentine in your easy grace,
folding in on yourself. one day,
when i missed the flowers,
you tied back my hair. even though
all you're holding is still just a
decoration, i can keep you in this
role, for spring days to come.

there aren't, in this world, too much trash
that can be so beautifully recycled.

==

pending revision.