She dreams she is small enough to stand on the damp soil
underneath the leaves of her umbrella plant
where slender arching stems are transmuted into towering trunks
that menace her slender stance.

She runs and runs but comes
only around the pot rim and back to her beginning.

A tipping can splatters the soil and she darts for shelter
beneath yellow-streaked leaves that bow and dance
under the stream of water, joyful in thanksgiving.
Pools form at her saturated feet, reflecting her grey face
framed by sagging clouds.

Where is the reality in this?
A dreamer lost in anxiety, dwarfed by her insecurities
or a coward in futile flight from problems she dare not face?
Or simpler still, a warning not to forget an umbrella
in case of sudden storms.