Meaning Well Isn’t Good Enough

“Warning, my love,” he says, his tone a soothing dance between dark humor and unease, “They’ve given me fresh corpses.”

I reach for the bouquet, sighing when the plastic shroud crackles against my open palm. “They mean well,” I say, kissing his mouth, looking into eyes that mirror my own in thinking, Meaning well isn’t good enough.

To the sacrifice, I whisper, “Wilt gently, darlings, I will preserve your bones.”

I wonder, wonder…
if cut flowers ever think
of dying for love

 

 

the wee notes…
– I don’t cut flowers I’m not going to eat or use for some sort of remedy. Since my Piano Man knows this, he tries to let people know so that they won’t present them as gifts after shows. When all fails, and people insist in showing their love for music with a bit of death, I dry the flowers, keep them for a while… before giving them back to the dirt.
– linked to Poets United.

 

Out of Nature’s Bones

I was rambling about my hate-hate relationship with winter, when a lady said, “I know what you mean. These damn months always remind me of getting ugly and dying.” The comment caught me by surprise. Not only because the lady had no idea what I meant (I just hate cold weather), but because I have never equated getting old with ugliness. Beauty changes with time, that’s true… but time doesn’t kill beauty. Only people do that.

Anyhoo, here is a haiku trio that embraces beauty that comes with time:

after the first spring,
new miracles do flourish
out of Nature’s bones

the sun shines
in the fallen leaves
of New York

time-caressed blossoms
evolve under winter’s kiss,
showing new beauty

.
for Poets United.