This is not a poem about flowers
The love-me-not petal sticks to the pavement.
Pink bleeds out, colour wrung by your heel
pressed good and firm into its skin
It’s too easy to write poems this way:
we are like flowers. We are like plants.
We are like trees.
But then, it’s not as if we’ve lost
this bond between stalk and spine,
stamen and synapse.
This is not a poem about flowers.
Learning to Tie a Tie