The essence, but not the feast.

The table is spread,
Heavy laden,
And delicious the air round about
But I, little I
Oh so hungry,
Must sit still by this window without.
I see it, and smell,
Almost taste it,
Hear the revellers merry and stout,
But I, little I
Am left wanting,
So cold and hungry alone and without.

Shadow of a rose

The sunlight, golden mottled black,
Follows it's predestined track
And soon will be white hot and bright.
But for a moment, captured quick
Within my minds eye's book so thick
Of lovely snapshots is this light
And the shadow of a rose across the blinds.