"Marigold Resurrection"
The sun worn
from a day's work
leaned against the roof
of the yellow brick house
across the road
with no dividing line.
The child plucked a marigold
once orange, now dead-
peeled its husk
shucked its past
and sprouted a treasure
of spear-like seeds.
She poked a grubby finger
deep into loam, sowed the seeds
that would flower into a poem
late on a Sunday night
thirty-six years after the poet
washed the soil from her nails.
HTSteele
The poem is about Ms. Steele as a child. It is a memory of her love of the marigold when she was young, defined in her adult life.
hrallen
from a day's work
leaned against the roof
of the yellow brick house
across the road
with no dividing line.
The child plucked a marigold
once orange, now dead-
peeled its husk
shucked its past
and sprouted a treasure
of spear-like seeds.
She poked a grubby finger
deep into loam, sowed the seeds
that would flower into a poem
late on a Sunday night
thirty-six years after the poet
washed the soil from her nails.
HTSteele
The poem is about Ms. Steele as a child. It is a memory of her love of the marigold when she was young, defined in her adult life.
hrallen
1 Comments:
I like the stuff you put on your blog. Interesting, reflection spawning, and like you said, uplifting. Thanks for your kind words. I wasn't actually aware anyone ever read my blog.
Take Care.
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