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.

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