Bouquet

There is a boy who kisses me hello and goodbye.

I thought his name was David

And three weeks later,

I wait for not-David on the porch.

 

not-David reminds me that I write a lot about love

Or “the idea of it”, he says.

And I want to remind him, lightly,

That in some religions

Ideas made the oceans and sky.

 

And I am watching him now

Stomp across dandelions and damp grass.

Musing

As he greets and sits

In my hammock- swaying

As if he told friction to

Leave with his sorrows

And she obliged.

 

But he is still afraid of bees-

Scares easy, I think.

Afraid of the natural, the fall,

The sting, and the ache.

“But isn’t it beautiful?”, I say.

“The bees beset the flowers

And someone braved the bees

and brought the flowers

that you bought for me.”

(he bought me flowers, you know?)

And I say all this

As he swats

At the droning

Between us.

 

I wish to find the florist-

Who arranged the roses

And hid the thorns so well.

Who laced the daisies

And ferns with asters,

And charmed me

To breath their perfume.

Who enabled this boy

To lie

So easily

In the springtime sun.

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