Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years
On
a certain day
in May
I might remember you.
I'll be drenched
in the sentimentality of it.
A flower will sprout from each
blue grey tear
I leak.
Then promptly withering to
brown,
will die
at my small gnarled feet.
Unlike the century plant
which lives and thrives but blooms
but once a hundred years.
None of my blooms, so precious,
made of tears, in torrents.
Legal Copyright January 17 2013/ 10:11am PST
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Melissa A Howells //Meloo Straight from her Tilt-a-World
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