A wedding dress she puts on,
And walks in front of a full length mirror,

Dreaming of her big day,
When rice grains are thrown over her head.

A woman who pours herself
A mimosa, orange juice and champagne.

And after 6 cocktails, she looks up,
And sees how beautiful she is now,

A bride in gossamer white,
Waiting like any girl, for that day.

When she feels the weight of gold,
On her left ring finger,

Loneliness turning to sip after sip
Of Mimosa, empowering a loose solitude

And like bubbles of champagne
Hope too, lives in effervescence,

A ritual of pouring herself a Mimosa
And feeling the phantom touch of her dream man,

Who lets her be like a mimosa plant,
A sensitivity that is so mercurial on impulse,

The sheer transience of touch
To a Mimosa, still a touch-me-not.

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