By Guest Author Vol Lindsey


Behind those piled stones,
in the corner of my garden
a drop of clear water is all
that’s needed to cut a petal’s
grip on her sated, pink ovule
in the sensual center of a
complicated iris. I think
she must sigh when
her toes lose their grip;
I can almost hear her song,
an all too familiar lament
written for all of us when we
begin our dissolution into Earth.
If you care enough about such
things, you might take a moment
to watch the sun sparkle
in her dying drop of dew.

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