She dusts off tears, and polishes apples, leaving notes of encouragement in half empty lunch pails. During the day she poses for pictures, framing her efforts against lonely regrets. You are the child, the gift--most divine--hardly an error, a twist in the road; the spur that propels her, the dream so sublime.

She feels like a failure; feeble efforts to provide, don't count against smart phones and technical wiles. Without you, she'd still have some assets, a few, but your surly attitude negates her last chance. Still...she loves you, and labours on. I wonder why.

wandering detour
thistles and melancholy
snap at tender flesh