I surmise
that the child
picks the flower
because of her belief
it will return,
without
the need
of replanting.
We take it for granted,
that somehow
they’ll just reappear,
each one birthed of bulbs
that mother sowed
so long ago,
a perennial
adhering to schedule,
arising
as if on cue,
and from where this girl
has come
I do not know,
perhaps she’s
the awkward youngster
down the lane,
who rides a bicycle
in the snow,
who only considers seasons
in the petals,
pedalling in futility
as her spokes all clog
with white,
the colours of the living
sleeping soundly,
in a ground
that’s not yet ripe.
Andreas Gripp
RF Image