Blue

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inside a box

wrapped in a bow

under wrinkled paper

(contained)

blue roses

at my door

 

I am a wildflower

I am a meadow

I am a wide open space

 

you can’t sit me on a shelf

you can’t put me in a vase

 

(i’m withering here)

 

blue roses don’t exist

blue roses can’t grow

 

I am a wildflower

I am a meadow

I am a wide open space

 

(you don’t know)

 

grow

wild

blue

and we knew (a love poem)

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the water held green, and it loved

pink so deeply that the sun rose each day

just to watch how green surrounded her true,

protected every petal and blush, and she

cherished him and stretched her bloom,

and the water was their canvas, so nothing

would change, and the reflection made

all that grew timeless, and we knew

let him pick no more

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don’t blossom here, flower,

close up, go back inside. don’t reach,

for your sun, don’t open your petals

wide.  don’t smile, or believe, or

speak your fuschia dreams.

he’ll pick you if you bloom just right,

grip you, rip you, wilt your hue,

until a lovelier one blooms, and he will

drop you. pick her. pick her. pick her.

you’ll be lying on the ground, with no

way to grow. wither. hold your blooms,

dear flower, let him pick no more.

No One Knows

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No one really knows the face

behind the garden gates, but

she smiles when the sun holds

her gaze. Eyes of ancient wonder

sing notes of blue upon the garden.

And when the leaves of fall crown her

gold, she holds it like it’s the last

she’ll ever know. Colors die,

cold creeps in, fades her into stone.

The flowers and sun betray her light.

She becomes invisible again.

where is he now? (for Anthony)

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where is he now
the gardener of souls?
his “good morning” silent,
cardinals wonder why
sun, looking for a reason
summer holding on,
flowers broken without his songs
the gardener of souls
where is he now?

 

Silent with Wonder

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In the tenderness of morning, the fog

wraps the horses in promise and paints

the yellow blanket soft.  The horses

speak their quiet, feel their Spring,

dance their velvet noses in flowered field.

Silent are the pines, watching

through dew drop eyes, hanging

their needled peace in the foggy morning.

Early morning hoof prints mark time,

yellow daybreak, flowery fog of pineful watch,

and I am silent with wonder.

Dreams from You

You appear every night in my dreams,

your hand out, leading me to gardens

of color and scent that float like music.

I twirl around, twist flowers in my hair,

and you smile, as if you know I belong

in this place that you dreamed for me.

And when we lie on a bed of wildflowers,

you take my hand in yours, and the stars

pour into the night sky.  It takes my breath

away, but you catch it and set it back

gently on my lips. I feel every flower,

every star, every breath you dreamed

for me. The night is cold, but your arms

are warm, and peace settles all around.

I wake to find it has gone; cold has returned.

All day I smell flowers and wait for you.

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