The small azalea, potted
on my porch, draped
in wilted clippings ripped
from neighbors nearly killed
by that frost insists
on budding, perhaps mourning
the red ribbon removed
on Twelfth Night. Bloom
I whisper and chase
these winter blues away.
Poetry Poem New Orleans winter azalea flowers
Red Against Blue
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1 comment:
"Bloom I whisper" - that line blows me away! I hope your little azalea is doing okay..:)
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