1800s
There’s a field that exists in my mind where she picks me. I watch the scene unfold regardless.
He is an evening primrose the color of an American goldfinch in a field of sage green clovers with meadowsweets and belladonnas. Not one was a shamrock.
A single woman with elongated, umber, and kinky hair with cheeks of redbuds saunters through the field. She never noticed the lack of four leaves. She picks him.
Meanwhile, I did the same thing staring at her as a striped carnation.
Humanity
She is extravagant,
A displayed skull in the wilderness
Picked clean by vultures of other origin
Forever altering her and her beauty
Vines and fungi flourishing side by side
The death of one is the life of nine.
She awaits the changing seasons,
The discovery of human touch,
A forever altering interaction, polished, caressed, and clutched.
Erato
By the window, saffron sun rays kiss the white-walled room, as the morning dew slowly scorches away.
From the ceilings, suspends still blush lantern lights that engulf the skin in peach pink tones.
In a corner, rests bronze-leafed succulents forgotten with the movement of time like thoughts on paper in a way—
all the while…
I simply write in black ink until it bleeds out upon strawberry stationery.
As specs of little ladybirds litter the patient page; their inches are milestones. Words, symbols and letters that create Cupid’s arrow. Hit or miss, they fly off my lips - down my arm - - to you. And only you.
