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.
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
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.