Butterfly Weed
The petunias flaunt their purple dresses
and their petticoats like can-can girls.
The geraniums on the fire escape
lean out with their bright faces
like children along a parade route.
Everywhere I am welcomed.
with festive oranges and yellows.
The perfumed ladies in lavender
forgive my mistakes at the office.
They are as forgiving as children
on birthdays. Old sins
are not logged. There is no memory
of lost annuals, or plants dug out
with leaf mold. Every day I bring
long drinks of water to this garden.
Like the butterfly weed, I long to live
only for the moment, my days
diaries of water and sun.
by Bob Bradshaw
Editor’s Note: Personification drives this poem from image to image. The narrator’s voice is a flower of mistakes at the office.
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