Rhododendron

 

I am unsure as to where this flower ends
or where it began. The small connecting limbs, hidden behind

the round series of heads, the seeding
centers, their odd tears around the edges

like teeth.

There is something oddly promising
about these flowers—you see, they have appeared

in my poems before. As children, as wind, even
a voice—never

as themselves,

in all their fierceness, in all their beauty. I love them
like I love so many things that are hidden

out-of-doors. Under all that sun, behind
another root system, in the neighbor’s

backyard. Sometimes I spy them in stranger places—

a vacant
frying pan, pieces shredded

in a bird’s nest. You could bring them to me
and I would plant them.

You could bring them to me

and I would be happy. In the quiet way that these flowers
are beautiful.

Bring them. I promise—
like wind.

 

 

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