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Perennial

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

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