False Flowering

Spring, sans the bloom. To Gina.

You were always orchid,
draped and heady, vain and fine:
a violet, tender temper accompanied
by the velvet voice of petal-wings.

As October threatened your vibrancy,
you robbed winter of her kill,
and me, of anything approaching peace.

From the shadows of that winter
I’m shedding layers of sanity
as the scent of spring assaults,
roughly ushering my senses
along a tainted monastery stream
awash with memories of untested depth.

Your mocking reputation
as thriving hybrid
is nothing but a mystic myth
or faerie tale - a filtered lullaby.
You’ve proven neither sturdy
nor resilient, and I believed you
to be both.