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
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
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.
endings
watched over by
beginnings
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.
color
speaks
its own words
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?
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.
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.
Talking to the Clouds 