Monthly Poetry Form and Prompt Contest

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Withering the stem, flower, leaves and all,
where has the vagrant Spring escaped, my love?
Well-chosen thorns beneath the nipper’s blade;
worms crawl, digest, returning all to earth;
while canes blow new above the moldering roots.
Why does my love, her back so freshly turned
waste time near this, my blooming sepulcher?


Dale Arthur

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