Sewing room ablaze wuth sunlight -
her curly brown locks aglow,
she bends over crocheted seams,
lost in dreams of a blissful life -
she threads red roses and whispers
to herself in the dreamy silence:
'O what joy to be a loving wife! '
The sharp needle pierces her finger -
real life intrudes with rude pain,
red droplets blossom and linger
on the embroidered fabric, marked
as though with a prescient thought -
dreams dissipate, a future marred.
The sewing room darkens and she nods.
Michael Pruchnicki
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/epiphany-in-red/
