Questions To The Mirror Looking At Me Poem by daughter of a seafoam

Your canvas
judges only the comings of a blizzard,
unmindful to the iridescence of the bandana
crowning the sky.
How could you paint
just the thirst of the desert sands,
no more than the burying howl
summoned by the storm?
All you had to do
was care to reach
and meet the damp shores
of an oasis anticipating
the nearness of your drought.
Why do you reflect
simply the covers of my body,
the size of my nose holes,
my skin  my tattered clothes?
Didn’t you know
that a piece from your shards
touching my skin,
would stain you
with redness that throbs
and breaths with life?