Dahlia

Pale and translucent as pink lemonade,
the morning sun filtered its petals
to pure lightness;

a saffron haze
near the stem, pallid fuchsia at its tips,
it yawns, unfurling its petals into
the summer air laden with mist
and amber seed.

The leaves cluster around its stem,
as though protecting its emerald heart
from the gardener’s shears;
every day an excruciating uncertainty;

the bees burrow deep
into its fuzzy heart
the way the pestle enters
the mortar; their famished
mouths can decimate
the life from this fragile bloom.

Every day the gardener
parks his rusty wheelbarrow
by the garden gate,
green with leaves and ivy,
and considers
plucking the precious blossom
from the sill;

an executioner of the garden,
the dahlia’s life dependant
upon his will.

Caroline Misner

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