Milkweed is conscious of those who are impertinent,
spreads out and the pods burst
the kind of poems I write are ones you read
when in need of hope
stretched out underneath the vanilla sky.
It’s interesting the way you twist words to work
in your favour,
step into the light of day
aware that falcons are more than able to swallow
the language clean.
I lie in bed and wait for reasoning to come and enlighten me
as strawberries fruit in October
nothing seems to be black or broken and yet
I am appalled by the manner in which leaves kiss the ground
perhaps they know of pretense
of scent and decay that accompanies betrayal.
A memory that will wet your lips every time you open
Photo credits: Charles Dawley, Flickr
Posted for Pantry of Poetry and Prose @ Poets United