In the hanging basket:
skeletal memories of
last summer’s blossoms.
A further spin off from Emily Dickinson’s “I Dwell is Possibility” is today’s haiku:
.
I know you love me
because you left this grieving heart
the last crumpet.
Again.
.
.
.
But if you’re reading, darlin’
I wish you’d worn your kilt today.
It wasn’t much to ask, was it?
Just sayin’.
How long ’til I stop
Checking behind me for my
faithful dog shadow?
.
Good bye Dusty Dog.
it was all hazy, and the sun was a huge silver orb hanging in mist. I should start carrying my camera again.
The perfume from
these stolen peonies
seems extra sweet.
.
.
.
(Lest you think I stalk the neighbourhood, masked, with scissors in hand looking for floral victims: the peonies in question were bending onto my driveway from a peony bush in a bed so overgrown I don’t think the neighbours even know the bush is there!).
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