Swing time

The scent of question burdens my mind crazy:

how the frost falls and weights a flower's bloom--

a tuft of promises scattered with lazy

excuses at dusk that overcast the room?

His sleight hands caress the sepals of deep

red, purple bruises stamped on her wet face.

Why on evenings, at home, she cringe and creep

to shelter while season of belle and grace?

Please Fuchsia! Raise your head and soak the tear

shed over a weak man who prunes fresh leaves,

callous that they are petals. It's real clear

The primrose will shoot with white eves,

(not having bluets for the whorl to see)

how delicate I can handle your care,

the frilly design for nature to bear.