I never saw 
until this wet spring
those tiny dark purple flowers
on the bush near the letterbox

the one with variegated leaves 
it’s bare of blossoms again now, 
come and gone like crying
it’s the washing of time

suds like purple flowers or 
the throat-grip of tears 
it’s the wetness makes the 
tears and the wetness that 

washes them away leaving
those empty cheeks... or gutter
the bush is grateful
for the rain but the rain 

makes the flowers fall
and the gutter takes 
them away until the bush 
enjoys another sodden spring

8 thoughts on “Circles

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