I will rise to meet you
though my stem be bent and brittle
for where we touch
there will be spring.
poem copyright © Bernadette E. Kazmarski
Just a draft of verse in contemplation of this weathered wildflower which blooms so fiery red in summer.
What strange sun is this
found in tatters of winter
holding memories of summer.
It’s an empty seed cluster from monarda, or bee balm, just happened to be touched by late afternoon sun while the snow beneath it was in shadow, its bent stem a blur beneath it.
. . . . . .
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