1st Place for Poetry
Florina Pena The Butterfly Ball
Old woman, sitting in a wooden chair,
Brushing her long silver hair.
She plays a song in a foreign tongue
And remembers a winter when she was young.
Golden hair, rosy cheeks and red painted lips.
A laughing smile reveals pearl white teeth as from a crystal glass she sips.
She dances in a ballroom wearing a butterfly gown,
Complete with wings and a glittering crown.
She is surrounded by masks at a costume ball,
She twirls and spins, unafraid that she will fall.
Old woman, alone, she hums a sad tune
In her pealing-wallpaper room.
She gazes at her reflection in a silver rimed mirror,
Caressing her aged face and seeing the wrinkles appear clearer.
Expensive creams will no longer get rid of her lines
And she is unable to spare a dime.
Old woman, living in a dream,
Old woman, trying to look younger than she seems.
Her eyes are dull, yet she does not shed a tear,
For she remembers many a happy year.
She closes her eyes and recalls the ball,
And, as if in a dream, she awakens in the dance hall.
Her eyes water with unshed tears,
And all the masked guests turn toward her and cheer.
Her wrinkles are gone and she is once again young,
And she does not notice the air escaping her lung.
She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath,
And dances forever with death.
|
