In the florists I floated a hand over the heads of the callas like a cleric blessing the harvest butter, gold and bumblebee yet such associations are mere contrivance we can never quite locate the adjective where sight and sensation come together in this instance perhaps the word is Surprise! he arriving all aglow with a pot of solar flares telepathic, the same wavelength of yellow light xanthous zantedeschia lilies yelling birthday greetings from smooth, curled lips and all that has gone now another mid-summer memory yellowing further and further still from youth he is elsewhere, not far, but the callas stay on in their blue bowl, brite lime now or chartreuse or some such word for happy and faded
Planting this poem in the Imaginary Garden’s Mid Week prompt: Going, going gone
PoetryPix 