Wonderland

I glimpse canary-yellow
beneath the magnolias in bloom;
where fog sits like milk on the meadow,
and a doe-eyed girl waits for watercolor days
like unsold fruit, ripened past its prime.

She waltzes like the last hand drawn:
lips pursed in cautiousness
and fright on her face
but I cannot greet her,
poor imperfect plaything.

The day is done
and the dance is over.

We are not in Wonderland anymore, Alice.

Last line is a Charles Manson quote, I believe.