Saturday, May 12, 2012


Lily, my lily, you quietly plundered,
after all that work in garden, I'm stained burnt umber.
My nose and cheek are now the color of brick,
for your fragrance beguiled me into forgetting your trick.
You quietly opened while I was mowing the lawn,
I really hadn't meant to be away that long.
You were such a pretty color as you danced with air,
I yielded to the perfume of Earth's own dare,
then cut your gorgeous flowers to make a bouquet
that captured your scent for more than just a day.
(Wanting to breathe the incense of your beginning
tenuous life could not be sinning.)
Or could it?
Stunned by my mirror this morning, I was glazed
by your tendril's power powder on my face, amazed;
and it won't come off, this magic dust is fragile, but keeping,
even though it stained my pillow while I was soundly sleeping.
Too soon the lovely fold of you will die or rot
while I'll remain with pale, decidedly not.

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