The wildflowers dance merrily around her
Her hair (too yellow to be white)
  flies about her face,
And the wind waltzes chaotically with her faded dress.
But she stands motionless
A steady rock in an ocean of commotion.
Her eyes are faraway
They do not see the waves of wildflowers
  reflected in them.

He in his suit is a polished gem in a pile of gravel
A crystaline vase on a shelf of plastic cups

A rotten apple in a bowl of fresh fruit.

Pulled by invisible strings
Out of his control his hand rises and
almost
he touches her.

Her eyes come back, focus on 
gold cufflinks
then flicker away.
I am not a wine connisseur she says,
looking at the flowers.