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In Bloom By Lydia A. Cyrus QuailBellMagazine.com  A sand colored plywood box rests beds of paper, delicate morning glories painted: the white of infancy and acclaim. They vine-- into the nests of periwinkle blue forget-me-nots
which trickle along the knobby wood in remembrance. For get me not, like vaporization that stains the manure in the garden, a fugue state will not be permitted. Rain will fall again. Under the driver’s seat there are flakes of rust removed from kitchen scissors, I cut the floral knots in swaths for you. Clean, with out easily identifiable marks, the garden would not know the secret of harvest, would not miss one haul, one stab. August heat wept all over me, my blue and red paisley dress. Reminisce of grown men who wept at wooden podiums. I had nothing to tie me to you, the flowers either. I wrapped my hair around the stems to gather them-- so that you would know I meant it. CommentsComments are closed.
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