A POETs CRUSH IS FICKLE
Happened upon black-eyed Susans,
so bright and beautiful. I stopped
and looked, snapped
a picture with my cell, drew back
breath and sighed; eyed
with appreciation, didn’t matter
where I found this gregarious garden
before I set out on
an inside adventure
with books. But stunned
by the sunny disposition
of this carefree crop,
my eyes popp’n with pure joy.
I soaked up the inverted petals.
I just wrote about your yellow suds,
and oh how they froth and yield
a smile - on my lips, in my eyes,
and my heart. How
do, perennials! I will forget your patch
but another bouquet will be dispatched.
In afterglow
I fill my bag with poets:
Hughes, Frost, Angelou, Greger
and Glück. You see
I’ve already moved on,
forgotten thee.
Leaving the library.
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