Children snap the ragamuffin heads
of dandelions at the neck, bring you
these dying gypsies no water can revive.
In reproach their petals shrivel
down to the fingers of arthritic grandmothers.
You scissor the stems of daffodils,
arrange them in a vase like debutantes
gossiping at a dance. When they, too, lose
their yellow skirts, you crush the last bloom
in the center of the Bible, then fix
its pretty death forever behind glass.
It haunts you: it is almost a poem.
If you've any comments about this
poem, Anna Evans
would be pleased to hear from you.