The dirt around the GRAVE is still MOIST. Her knees will be wet and a little dirty. She should have known better than to come today.  But in her grief and confusion, she was BOUND to make some mistakes. Like buying an arrangement with an oddly POOFY bow. The next rainstorm will be sure to flatten it, and from the looks of the sky, it wasn’t far off. Looking around the cemetery, she understood why there were so many artificial flowers on the graves. The lily that never lost petals, the intact POPPY turned to a sun-faded red.  She looked at her bouquet of delphinium, baby’s breath, white roses. Really more suited to a bride than a corpse. Symbolic, perhaps, of the complexity of the moment.

Georg’ann

SPARE moments went 
to a friend, as they often do. 
She asked nothing, 
gave no space. 
90 minutes passed, 
PLUCK went energy 
from an affable solitude seeker
with dance card too full. 
POINT her once again 
toward the train, 
quiet ride alone looking
at blue twinged wheat fields
dotted with crimson POPPY.

Heather