five sunflowers in a lemon-yellow vase
cat tiger-striped on the rug in the sun
Sunday afternoon is easy
flowers
we flourished
we flourished in the sun
harvesting one another’s flowers
and now we feed tomorrow’s fields
You left me flowers
You left me vases of flowers that did not die
A lemon yellow sun in the cobalt sky
A written instruction I was never to cry
All I wanted was to unhear goodbye
Roses are red
Roses are red
So is blood
Resting after training
legs stretching, muscles wire tight
eyes closed in the indoor sunlight
every seven minutes a daffodil crackles open
Last petals falling
birds rise as one, calling to comrades
low sun flickers on flowers and wingtips
That cyclist hasn’t
That cyclist hasn’t thought through the whole flowers-in-the-backpack situation. Pedestrians are showered with petals like confetti. Some smile and hold hands more tightly, others brush petals from their faces. Perhaps tears. The cyclist speeds on. At his destination, perhaps a red-brick block near the bypass, disappointment waits with its usual patience.
Poems tell the truth
Poems tell the truth
Like cherry blossom falling
On cold Spring mornings
Game
A game of innocents, collecting flowers. Buckled shoes, smiles and hay fever sneezes. Then a cloud across the sun and cold shadow.
Olfaction
Since the physician-induced coma following the second stabbing, the only smell I can distinguish is that of jasmine. How precise and pernickety our nerves and brain cells must be, that the odours and flavours of rose, of dog rose, of honeysuckle and of tiny wild orchid are all lost to me but jasmine remains. And grades of jasmine at that – how long it has been open, the time of the day, whether it has been shaken or lightly crushed, all of these make a difference. How wonderful are our brains; how wonderful the shades of jasmine.
