an ending

weeds rusting in autumn (yellow dramas)
wildflower softly cottoning, splitting
itself along the edge—tracing its spine

(through the window, varieties of coffee, 
overgrown, growing up—bubbling over—
gesturing—neither of us—)
murkpaned window

freed from need—long walks—
tearing through the field (—all 
things I liked) —the maintenances

(catching the seeds in an envelope)


What makes me feel better? I mean when I’m on my own. Writing. Reading. (It’s also where the grief is caught—) “You’ve had two significant losses in just a few months.” If I don’t learn from them they will mean nothing.

The flowers, Ripley’s flowers, turned to seed—sow them and harvest them when next they grow. 

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