Grandmother
I dreamed
I was picking
flowers for you again,
like I did the summer before
you died.
Sometimes
I dream about
flowers, and as I wake
the colors fade into the tears
I cry.
I dreamed
you died.
Sometimes
I cry.
I learned from "Amaze: The Cinquain Journal" (now defunct) that in finely written modern Cinquain the first and last lines in each Cinquain should make a "mini poem."
Copyright © Chetta Achara | Year Posted 2021
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