She is the orange hatter. Holding
orange rose blossoms
against black lace.
Bride marrying
a fish;
a plaid, handsome fish.
He watches her walk,
holds stern hands together,
to keep
from touching
a brunette flower in gold trim.
She is beautiful, the flower, with
agony’s gaze.
With child.
Matching orange bouquets with the bride.
Flushed in the background,
a lemon princess smiles.
Throwing innocence on
holy ground. The only
child left.
Left by Mother, (un-photographed),
because
Mother had no bouquet, just
a bastard lemon child
in a basket,
in July.
July has taken more lemons than
given. From dumpsters.
From wombs.
Some, children of children.
Some, children of
addicts,
victims,
shame.
Some, children of a flower in
Gold trim, holding on to a matching
bouquet
of a Bride.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 
I liked this and felt it was maybe not the appropriate thing if you know what I mean … it seems to me to be so full of insight and sadness, so determined to express the complexity of lives, I do like to read your work MaggieMae.