I am an accidental florist of bruises
on our lips, on our teeth.
I can’t fathom why they run around in circles like they do,
those silly people who don’t understand
what is reality and what is not,
the honeysuckles wither at the end of summer
and flowers die at first frost
yet we still madly try to keep them alive
but can’t save ourselves.
copyright 2012 kristen camino