four crows in the June grass
watch me watching them
from my bright blanket,
while the fifth plucks sprigs
of blooms from the chestnut
an all-at-once wind teases
white petals into yellow light –
a sudden floral flotilla
and the fifth crow flies with one,
two, three sprouted sprigs
and I from my bright blanket
reaching into the world –
admiring the petals,
yet never wondering
who the bouquet is for
© Sarah Whiteley
I avoided the place
with the dahlias this year
unwilling to stand
bland among the bursts
of petals last seen
through a cheerier hue
© Sarah Whiteley
on a whim, I turned left
to walk beneath the magnolia
spilling pink-hinted petals
into a differently scented morning
than if I’d just
gone straight ahead
© Sarah Whiteley
I have reconciled myself to much lately
perhaps too much so
and now the hydrangeas
have lost their azure
bleached to bone-papered petals
kissed too closely by the sun
come fall I would have picked
bloom by bloom the dusky blues
and purples from their globes
as they dried for a bit of color
to scatter across the table
but today the possibility
vanished into dry disappointment
if I could just instead pluck
a few small pieces from the sky
of that certain blue with the gold-tinged
hue of days’ slow slide into early autumn
I would not so mind the loss
of a few dried blooms
© Sarah Whiteley
ebbtide 