There are flowers
but I couldn’t say what colour.
Some sort of pastel arrangement,
probably cream and the bluey sage-green
that’s magazine shorthand for rustic.
I remain immune to their beauty.
Even a poem is torture.
I will the words to lift from the page,
to dance, haphazard and delicate as butterflies,
a pure formation of restless wonder.
But in my haste to hold them I may crush
their tiny wings with murderous hands,
desire a lethal, grinding stone
to spoil and darkly smother.
Unburdened by enchantment,
the verse stays stiff on a dusty slab,
its richness faded, without note,
as I lie frigid beside.
Tracee Findlater 