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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 © 2023 Maria Kintner

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