Broken Flowers

There was a whole field
of lavender, waiting
when my bare feet tiptoed out,
careful not to slam the screen door,
careful not to cry.

It was kissed all better
at grandma’s
after a cup of hot chocolate
and bedtime prayers
upon grandpa’s lap,
peacefully sleeping;

sugarplums were only secrets
rolled and kneaded into poetry,
softly dancing in my head,

and oh, those wildflowers
did make me smile:

~he loves me, he loves me not~

pure heart,
delicate as those petals,
fingers entwined
in little girl wishes
upon a star

to the one
who always loved me.

~

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