Not one child at the flower show —
and then I thought,
Yes, of course — the flowers themselves.
A grave, the size of a shoebox,
on the shelf, all else a dream.
Thus, out of a poem — sticks, petals,
solitude, and whatever else.
The aged, in their hats, looking back.
Looking back — except that now, for some reason,
I remember there were children everywhere.
There were babies just a few weeks old,
frowning, like prunes in the sunlight,
when their heads should have been covered.
Good heavens — fancy that.
Not one flower at the child show?
Surely I was someone, somewhere, sometime, else.
Oh, I know — I was a flower, myself.
And you — you were there.