Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry. ~W.B. Yeats

She sings

songs of apple trees

that bloom without

fruit. Yellow canaries

perch to eat seeds and

steal joy. She cries

when love brushes her 

shoulder and changes

its mind. She sits on a

chair alone again and

again and wonders

if she'll always be

perfecting her 

backup

plan.