is as though softening
it’s being conscious of one’s strength
to bear the unchanging sun.
nor memory placate
the cadence of your voice haunts
as I struggle
with my heart and head,
I am a flower plucked–
destined to wither before its hour.
Photo credits: Adolph de Meyer Still life, 1908.
Posted on ‘Camera Flash’ @ Real Toads
And on ‘Poetry Pantry’ @ Poets United