Tuesday, September 8, 2015

Not one child at the flower show

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.


Jonathan Chant said...

Love the mood of this one. Fits in with my way of thinking, exactly.

William Michaelian said...

Very pleased that this should strike you so.

sandy said...

"frowning likes prunes in sunlight"

I love your poetry.

William Michaelian said...

I’m glad, Sandy. It’s kind of you to say.