I look upon
The final embers
Of the evening's fire
And find a metaphor
For dying dreams
And silenced wishes.
I recall my girlhood fantasies
Of a snow-white wedding
To an everyday prince,
And catch the whisper
Of womanly desires
That kindled
Then died
On a cold, virgin hearth.
The kisses I have shared
Are as the fingers
On one hand,
The healing seams
Of my heart
Like the hairs on my head,
And the lonely sobs
Of my spinster spirit
Echo softly
From within a sealed tomb.
My prince did not come
And there will be no chidren,
Nor any grandchildren,
To accompany me
Through my autumn years.
I seldom question
With whys and why-nots
The reasons for my solitude,
For there are no easy answers;
So, with a sigh,
I place a knotty log
Upon the embers
And feel the warmth
Of the refed fire
Soothe the ache
From my hungry soul.