Bloom

Tue, 05/21/2019 - 12:50 -- adsvnt

Feather light touches,

blink and they’re gone.

I used to watch flowers in the early Spring bloom,

unfurling the curl of their petals in a yawn

to shake the last frost from them.

A match to the stretch of a newborn’s hand,

Opening and grasping the air.

It is new. Different. A change but it’s alive.

And maybe it is the unknow that

energizes heavy hearts enough to dive deep.

To dive deep and to be swallowed whole,

and they feel alive. Are they?

Summer lures me.

Her sticky smiles and warm laughing

delight.

They way she can nurture nature,

make them green, bright, happy…

Green was never a good color on me.

A minute in the stifling blaze transforms into hours.

How time flies.

Time never liked me anyway.

I used to lay in the fields,

the fabrics of my apron bunched in my hands.

Fiery reds, mellow tones of oranges drifting around,

and leaves would hitch rides home in the braided tangles of my hair.

They’ve been missing for a while now, Spring and Summer.

Autumn.

The hydrangeas were shivering.

Their dried, brown petals straining against the winds will.

Poor things, didn’t they know Winter was here to stay?

Persistent things.

They shouldn’t be faulted,

For I must not forget

That I was alive once, too.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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