Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Hope

Like a daisy
fresh with spring's kiss
white petals of promise
drop away through seasons
until left with a yellow core
that withers, fades,
and dies.

I did not plan to write a dark poem, nor any poem at all. The words are here because of anger, fury, and pain. I look at this picture and remember so much promise; a cascading giggle, visions of placid domesticity, two new lives that brought such joy...and I remember the betrayal, the struggle, the hardship, the numbing, and now that sweet soul whose laugh I haven't heard in years, lying yellowed and withered on fresh white sheets.

I was the flower girl, that short egg-yolk blot.
And Eliot was wrong; March is the cruelest month.

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