Pink, like milk with a little blood in it
by Maria Kintner
There are too few blooms on my tree,
and I see them curling in the afternoon sun.
The Sun, that rushes to our demise,
has no gentle hand.
Yet, neither do I.
I bruise my own petals, under the pressure of my thumb,
and pluck the flowers with my violent grasp.
I wear them in my hair like the future, and face down death
when the moon rises, and there is only fragrance left in the air.
Author's Note: Tis the season for letting things go
Posted on 01/30/2019
Copyright © 2019 Maria Kintner