For Desdemona

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Daddy’s flower, ripe for the picking,

he born with his brain, led by the heart.

Breathing thimble pricked with malicious prongs

through your white lily heart.

Ever a pawn, never promoted to queen,

snatched incessantly from the board by greedy hands,

passed back and forth, hopping between black and white,

rolling to the floor as the game hits climax.

Omnipresent orator challenging the demagogues,

Ophelia with a spine,

Cordelia with a choice,

Lavinia with a sword,

dignified willow planted firmly, wrapped in a wedding shroud.

Too little too late,

a man’s conscience is a hasty executioner

who soon regrets his guillotine sense of restraint.

The apple tree cannot resist the ivy noose

but it drops fruits in adversity,

sweetening the creed of the garden it dies in.