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Rated: E · Poetry · Family · #1905478
Gifts from my little one
flowers, he says—
sheltered in cupped hands
like snowflakes on death's edge:

white bindweed trumpets, bright
as thoughts popping,
winding vines that cling
like anxious fingers twisted
through mine—

yellow dandelion puffs, dusty
as mote-filled sunbeams,
heavy tops that bob
like drowsy heads dipped
nose-first into dreams—

purple henbit pixels, scattered
as random patches of forgotten fury,
scarlet buds that blush
like hot cheeks rashed
with frustration.

Too limp to prop in porcelain vase,
too small to float in crystal bowl,
I tuck these treasures into memory's tissue,
press them under leaves of leaden time
to fill empty space—

between now and when
he brings me other things
I don't know how to save.

Contest/publish records:
NFSPS 2014, Category 46, 3rd place (cash prize)
Segullah, May 2016 issue http://segullah.org/genre/poetry/jacob-brings-me-weeds/
Messages on the Water http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/merrijane
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