Misery And A Flower

Standard


We are only allowed
the immodest nosegay
that is springtime
for a few remarkable
weeks. The glorious
overlapping fragrance
from an opulence of blooms
unfurling from tree branches,
pushing upward
from the loamy soil,
awakens hibernating
senses. I cannot grieve
properly in a garden.
I cannot hold misery
and a flower.

NaPoWriMo Day 17

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