04-30-2016, 02:43 PM
Never-ending cycles
The shrub in the pot by my back door
has flowered bunches of white stars
that glow like ghosts through the dusk.
You were still alive when I poked the sprig
from a Mother’s Day gift into a pot,
for years now a drab scrappy plant
apart from this glory in autumn.
Harvest and store, the moon advises,
winter’s ahead. Dry leaves shatter
freeing the sticky flower heads from shade,
their sweated scent pungent. A clean
faintly antiseptic smell, like the 4711
you dabbed on your handkerchief.
Tomorrow is Mothers Day again.
I offer flowers for your memory, Mum;
heads of cannabis, and chrysanthemums.
Thank you Milo, for another year of pushing the boundaries! Thank you all, lovely poets of the pen - it's been a privilege to write beside you, as well as a lot of fun.
The shrub in the pot by my back door
has flowered bunches of white stars
that glow like ghosts through the dusk.
You were still alive when I poked the sprig
from a Mother’s Day gift into a pot,
for years now a drab scrappy plant
apart from this glory in autumn.
Harvest and store, the moon advises,
winter’s ahead. Dry leaves shatter
freeing the sticky flower heads from shade,
their sweated scent pungent. A clean
faintly antiseptic smell, like the 4711
you dabbed on your handkerchief.
Tomorrow is Mothers Day again.
I offer flowers for your memory, Mum;
heads of cannabis, and chrysanthemums.
Thank you Milo, for another year of pushing the boundaries! Thank you all, lovely poets of the pen - it's been a privilege to write beside you, as well as a lot of fun.