could you be real?
not made of parchment paper, or satin ribbon streams?
soft pink petals–
your scalloped beauty has spoken

fly with the geese
live in a miniature village beneath huge orchids
become invisible and wander the world
ride a unicorn
physically step into the pages of a book
have a conversation with fish (and cows and birds and horses and cats)
walk into a painting
travel in a time machine

i witnessed a devastating fire on a sunny day in March,
i heard the glass pop and the timbers fall within great plumes of suffocating black smoke–
i placed my face close to the velvet petals of a tulip and felt a cool greeting in response–
i watched a small child ride a scooter in the street and an old woman yell at him to move along, his indifference made clear in the straight position of his young shoulders–
i held a pup’s head that will grow to be larger than my own and marveled at her soft, gangling beauty–
almost too much for a lifetime, let alone, for a day

she asked me to forgive her–
but there was nothing to forgive

after taking your image,
i feared you would wither and die–
but upon turning with a final glance,
you simply smiled and waved goodbye

while strolling with the pup,
we greet the delicate forsythia like long lost friends

the beauty of fading beauty

i’ve been remembering their favorite flowers
and how they laughed
and how they smelled
and how they loved
and grew angry
and were unbendable
and wonderfully flexible
and what they said
with heavy accents
and what they grew in their gardens
and the plums they picked from trees
and swiss chard from the dark earth
and how protected i felt in their embrace
and how i thought they would all live forever
and now i dream about them
and think about them
and miss them all with an ache in my trembling heart
that stretches out into infinity

it waits there, quietly
and patiently
and pliantly–
it waits until it is perfectly ready to bloom