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Crumpled Petals in my Pocket
striped rose1.jpg


April 23






I can’t bring back the bloom.  Cohesion, lost in ripeness, is left only to memory.  I carry home the parts, folded, petite, fragrant bedding for my wistful desires.  I put these colored remnants into a jar of salt.  I make an aromatic rub for the sweetest of wounds.  Transforming the parts to useful duty doesn’t restore the flower.  It doesn’t pay tribute to the past; it is survival.  I have a mind filled with roses but I must make hay.  Today, I live.  Today, the rose is dead, its pieces in my pocket.  I don’t die with the blossom, though my head blows in the wind.  The rose runs its course. I run mine.



Line your clouds with anything you like.






Coming Home to Work



I have arrived home to a beehive;

everyone industrious,

everyone filled with purpose,

everything buzzing right along.


My response to this of course is anger.

I have a sting and I want to use it.

I have a place it falls into yet I fear falling.


The living world is now opened to me,

but my destination had been death for so long

that the prospect of diligence ignites steel blue fury.


I divide my time between gratitude and rage.

I want to accuse myself, rescue myself,

then I remember everyone in this place too

has a buzz, a stripe and a stinger.