The Unpicked
The roses are blooming
white like virginal brides
I prefer waking
to your gentle footfall
than the soft thuds of petals
falling to the grass
like giant flakes
The flowers
all face the sun
though obliquely
Do they know
swaying in clusters
like dancers at a ball
that they won't be picked?
The blooms
look almost identical
except for their blemishes
gesturing for flight
like soft-winged girls
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