1
the bouquet you never received
(bachelor buttons & trillium,
sweet william & alyssum).

i, at least, picked them with noble intentions.

2
now rain on your window
as you curse the doldrums

moss on the northside of bare trees.
your fingers unable to hold magic
even as they create it.

perhaps you did not understand
the pile of leaves on your lawn
were nothing more than whispers
that failed to become perfect dreams.

3
i, the inarticulate,
cursing as rain turns to sleet -
ice on the steam valve
i attempt to open - 3am.

4
now the sheets speak a dialogue
you would rather unlearn.

in the kitchen
the smell of fresh baked bread -
broke by yourself -

a sacrifice to Sanity, the most demanding of all the gods.

5
in your coffee cup - vanilla cappuccino.
you drink his name,
the way you drank his dreams, his ache.

6
the altar is vacant.

i picked up the invitations -
bachelor buttons, daffodils.
trillium. bleeding hearts.

7
the smell of hot paper pulp
on a frozen wind
is not exactly the aroma of your perfumed fingers.

by morning my fingers will be all knots,
wanting only sleep.

these concrete walls have a way of distorting dreams
to the point they respond to only dollar bills -
no longer visions that allow hearts to soar.

8
i am the song of the starling
on your old feeder -
the song stolen but nearly beautiful
in different circumstances.

Kenn Mitchell
©7:7-8:98