Cornflowers
Soft, the color of kitten eyes,
As if they’re feathers, light, warm.
These flowers are ladies’ veins,
The bruise of your oily eyelids
When you drift away into summer grass.
I decorated you with petals,
Cobweb to your Oberon because I lack
That Puckish panache.
But you said you didn’t mind.
These pale purple flowers, small weeds,
Grow for you in the summer-spring haze,
The brief heartaching burst of days between.
Then, as now, they grew up to brush your fingertips,
And when they find your hands are gone,
Torn, ripped to scatters along another road,
Maybe they mourn. Maybe their perfect blue centers,
Finding the matching empty dusk,
Stay closed just a little longer.
Maybe they don’t notice your absence.
Maybe they die.
As if they’re feathers, light, warm.
These flowers are ladies’ veins,
The bruise of your oily eyelids
When you drift away into summer grass.
I decorated you with petals,
Cobweb to your Oberon because I lack
That Puckish panache.
But you said you didn’t mind.
These pale purple flowers, small weeds,
Grow for you in the summer-spring haze,
The brief heartaching burst of days between.
Then, as now, they grew up to brush your fingertips,
And when they find your hands are gone,
Torn, ripped to scatters along another road,
Maybe they mourn. Maybe their perfect blue centers,
Finding the matching empty dusk,
Stay closed just a little longer.
Maybe they don’t notice your absence.
Maybe they die.