Maidens of Flower

Maidens of Flower


Foot tracks are all that remain.
Gaia has yet to notice our thievery.
Stained are our lavender lips;
Empty reed baskets are left ransacked.

Friends, as we, frolic in floral sundresses.
The bottom seams are ripped, ragged
And raw—painted from ancient,
Grassy brush-strokes.

Crisscrossed, we sit, beneath the outstretched arms
Of a mother maple. Dandelions, we had knotted
In perfect succession, lay near.

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