When at the Flower Shoppe

Recently I visited a local coffee shoppe and posted a piece inspired by that visit. Here’s a poem inspired by a stop at my favorite florist.

Image result for florist

When at the Flower Shoppe

Find a still corner,
where a garden’s perfume
floats thickest.

Fill your lungs with that honey. 
Breathe deeply.
Close your eyes. Listen!!

It will start as a hum,
a hummingbird’s flutter,
a buzz, a swish from here to there,

then a distant melody,
the faint twitter of a pipe,
a sprite, beneath a blur

of delicate wings,
piping a ditty as its sisters and brothers
scrape wax from scented candles,

apricot and bayberry,
applewood and buttered rum,
slivers they’ll melt

between fallen petals
that soften the floor
behind the florist’s bench,

a carpet as lush as tears,
before they slip through the passages
they share with mice and whispers

back to their homes
in the meadows between shadow and sleep
lacing a child’s dreams

with the gentility of flowers,
that sweet bouquet.


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