Here is a soul accepting nothing.
Obstinate as a small child
refusing tapioca, peaches, toast.

The cheeks are streaked, but dry.
The mouth is firmly closed in both directions.

Ask, if you like,
If it is merely sulking, or holding out for better.
The soup grows cold in question.
The ice cream pools in it’s dish.

Not this, is all it knows. Not this.
As certain cut flowers refuse to drink in the vase.

And the heart, from it’s great distance, watches, helpless.

Jane Hirshfield.