Sunflower

The florets don’t share their color;
they maintain their vibrancy
and their contrast to the bland surroundings.

I rub my fingertips against the sunflower petals,
trying to extract their hue
that I might use it to paint my dark world
bright and golden.

The florets don’t share their color;
they maintain their vibrancy
and their contrast to the bland surroundings.

The pads of my fingers also remain the same–
bare of yellow–
only the skin-tone whorls and loops and arches
that existed long before my attempt at amelioration
can be seen.

And yet something in the murky cosmos,
though nearly imperceptible,
has changed.


Photo by Mike from Pexels


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What is Love?

Baby, don’t hurt me.

On the edge of a cliff
I stand,
head bowed,
hands clasping
the wrought iron form
of my heart,
not wanting to drop it
but needing to let it fall.

I don’t look
down below.
I don’t dare
try to ascertain
who might catch it
or whether
there is anyone
to catch it at all.

I simply loosen my grasp
and allow it to tumble
from fumbling fingertips
into the unknown.

Photo by Anna Urlapova from Pexels

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