We Are Mere Spectators

We gasp as our hostess enters the garden. All of us women wearing glorious colors, trying for attention. She has, of course, worn the ultimate dress Which instantly brings lilies and carnations to fruition. We ordinary simpletons are dressed like rainbows Dismally paling against marigolds and roses Which also sense that an angel has entered the arena Our oranges, pinks and reds are not contenders for attention now. She has sauntered in as if straight from heaven’s gates. She is glistening without trying; her caramel skin is popping. Her brown eyes are exceptional, and her white dress virginal. Reminding Lily of the Valley she is queen of the garden. The rest of us fade away amongst flowers that smirk. No contenders for attention or conversation. A garden party for forty, where all eyes stray to one. She is the bride; we are mere spectators.