Bouquet
from Entanglements, self-published November 2015
They each wilt,
heads drooped
low and tired.
They’re dry inside
from the fore-night
when their lifeblood
left them.
Maybe crutches of
baby’s breath
or the notion thereof
could hold their ids up.
Still, their egos sulk.
Silken redmilk petals,
scarlet velvet bouquet,
I see what you could be
if you’d unloose the leaves
and the lefts
and the leavings.
If only
your crimson staying
that beautifies with age
could keep you here.
If only
you’d stay
if you’d allow it.
