Pistils

Thick pollen dust sticks to my fingers
I do not brush it off, but leave it around
while it sets I calm down, I grow slowly
and uninhibited as that’s how it
happened to be – The lone creativity

Poems to recite, faces to be read
Tea leaves predict replaceable days
My mind can react in a cynical way
as if this flow is less than it should be
In nobody’s absence there is enough
rain and there are enough flowers

My thoughts and their crew muse on being
diffused to dimensions where I can draw
from a fair believing heart – Reality objects
as if self-deception and repaying darkness
should be battled alone by hands that have
mainly carried stars and a crescent moon
I lack arms to crusade and wind blows
through me

My eyes did not expect get blessed and
shielded by help from a foreign cloud
that has seen how castles can crumble and
shells filled with sand that the tide took out
It held petals now withered – I listen to
gentle breezes, while sensing swirling blizzards

Bit by bit I’ll rise from basic and profound
into something that blooms and I want
to bloom savagely – ’t is why I pretended
my fingers were perennial pistils

Here to plant warm soil below Oleander leaves
as this is where I’ll grow from – I gently care
for roots that would otherwise rot and drown
in the ripples of answers once asked for
and solitude to be basked in – I bid a goodnight’s
rest to perpetual doubts away from drought
and its wasteful companions


© Monique (starfish_72)

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