A Flower Among the Mud

One purple flower…
        Or maybe it is fuchsia, or lavender
        Or that seventh colour, what is it?
        Indigo?
        It is the one we’re never sure of;
        The last upon the spectrum.
It is all that remains.
A hemmed in lake of muddy dirt;
Not even the rich, black kind.
This lonely flower blooming in
Everyday muck.

Maybe it’s my romantic nature
Or a last ditch effort at
Schizophrenia,
But I think that flower of
Negotiable colour
Has value.
I admire its tenacious grasp
And its oft unseen petals
Fluttering in this bitter wind.
I admire its courage to bloom,
So unlike us.

Another Beautiful Day

It was too beautiful a day
to sit in class.

Worn thin, this adjective,
Like steel wool used too often
And cheapened like the girl in the
Second row; she’s just another
Beautiful face.

This day is like every other.
No clouds, and the sun
That makes us squint so
We can’t even see.
It is beautiful outside, it is March, and I
couldn’t bear to sit in class any longer.

And while all the trees are still dead,
Their limbs only sometimes resembling
The skeletons I hear them compared to,
One has bloomed, white bursts–
I’d tell you if I knew
What kind of tree it is.
To my eyes, it is pretty, unlike
Those beautiful non-skeletons.