Mimosa Pudica in the Breeze

Dressed but aloof

I count the hours

The heels of my boots tapping

The hours seem so trapping

Standing tall

But feeling

small

My leaves shrink before i can think

The touch of your hand as the hours slip by

I close my leaves preferring my sleeves

Closed off like a door

Where i watch from afar

I hear the chimes of the people near

That indicate that the new year is here

The strike of 12 fills me with a forlorn feeling for freedom

No longer avoiding the touch of another

I am

a breeze

A gentle caress

I flow by and indulge

With social finesse

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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