You are so gracious with your love,
I think, breaking off the flowers
from a nearby hedge. The
hedge is low, and spindly. The leaves are
waxy. “I don’t even know what they
are, these flowers,” Yevtushenko
once wrote, and I know how he felt, standing waist-
in something pretty yet unnamed. Not deep
enough to drown in but you try pretty
damn hard, don’t you?
Written y’day, queued for today. This is a poem-a-day blog, after all.