POETRY: Precipitous Event

The bushes wear their crystal beads of rain
as if today is going to be a party. 
Swishing in the wind
their great green tiers of ballgowns
in anxious wait of sun to strike the hour. 
But Cinderella lay along the ashes of the hearth
among the books of stories told over and again
in the twists and turns of pages. 
The weary sudden nap
turns way too long and
unhearing of the chimes, she sleeps
right through the ball.