she is not sorry
she steps in to the part of a sun petal, gaunt webby dress and sticking heels, not sorry, yellows and pinks, that gently lulling clash of waves of colour and scent of remembrance, the scent of cloves upon her hands. some of the weighter stalks make a fort of dreams, she is not sorry for picking her way out, plucking the mapgpie feathers, or taking a sunflower as if it could be plucked not a flower but fowl, that fat hen, always nodding, you know she just would not give up, she is not sorry. love is tattered and messy and beautiful in the sun, and more so in rain, yet wretchedly lovely, not sorry, love is never saying i am sorry, for being, for being the ungardener disturbing all nature's ugly beauty spots, a flowery laugh as she skips, pollen stains on her skirt, that flapping moment of sun that scratches her face and stretches the afternoon, make it wait by the garden gate, now the garden, not the left fist but the right hand path, each petal a moment of illusion, crushed.
posted by Cathy @ 9:36 AM
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