Every frill is here, every flounce
a European model might wear
everything crowded regardless of scale
and a huge train that trails on the gravel
like a long white tongue-depressor
edged with a flange-like ruffle.
Even the roses, new-leafed, in bud,
seem larger than usual and bushier.
The bride stands at the sunken centre
the roses around her rising on terraces
and the fountain leaps, like a tape measure
shuddering slightly a one more furbelow
while the new green leaves try to
resemble wreaths or something serious
the faint sun on their slippery surfaces
while the camera clicks and clicks.
from the water cooler dropped by paper cup.
Week after week its fine fronds
wither and draw in like brown-gloved hands.
Finally I take it home, concealed in paper
and leave it to breathe first in the sitting room
then for an hour in the open air
finally I tap it from its pot to find
a veritable waterlogged veiny mass
that light drained soil may succour
like a good influence. Today
its fronds are still brown but do I imagine
its cramped cold roots stiffly unbending?