The birthday flowers are yet Immersed, sipping with green straws- Half swallowed or nearly drowned – One by one I pluck nodding Blossoms, blackened and wilted At the moment of their faint I lift the withered pieces and carry them in my croning hands, scatter them in places where they may stay or tumble in the wind .
The last stoic blooms Of slender amethyst daisies Next to white, puffy petals Amidst naked stems remain Exposed and hesitant Only the leaves still seem untouched Like the day they arrived, verdant with open Palms in some kind of incantation Offerings of love and celebration .
And I wonder, is this the rose that comes So brightly, a kiss, a whisper of something Distant, then folds upon itself? A silent collapse, a closing tight? .
A time goes by then and from The vacant stare of an empty vase, I ponder love’s return.
Categories: poem by Marianne Bickett, Uncategorized
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