In Bloom
By Lydia A. Cyrus
QuailBellMagazine.com
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.
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.
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