flowergirl // a poem

she spends mornings unwrapping furry stalks
from cellophane, being careful not to
tear or bruise vivid chlorophyllic leaves
nature cut so precisely with stencils
for her. so, she takes each stunted stumpy
bloom and picks away the dust between
the buds and skewed petals until she has
made them perfect (to shallow observers’
sense of sight exclusively). that colour
fits in the category of Things you Can’t
Quite Describe with Words. but rather, with soft
memories of over-creamed and over-
sweetened cups of coffee from a tiny
cafe between the collarbones of an
ambiguously-aged mountain, bruised with
traces and dusty fingerprints and ghosts
of generations of feeling beings.
the chalky ground bleeds with nitrates (and de-
composed dusty daydreams) for the flora
blooming boldly between silver stacked slate.
until she comes, one morning, to pick
the furry stalks, bundle them with rope and
arrange them in such a specific way
that pleases a muffled part of the pulse
beneath the left side of her ribcage.

thanks for reading! this is one of my first (and favourite) poems i’ve written, inspired by early mornings watching my mum arrange flowers on the kitchen table. follow my instagram account if you want to see more! @for.poetry.etc

all the love x

 

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