Hemlocked Heart

Babies breath and bluebells, long before we ever met,
Lay bounded and bashful in a baby blue basket.
Wrapped in burlap and tied up with frayed strings,
Silver cobwebs coated the dried flowers of spring.

My bleeding heart felt the bitter ticking weight
From the grandfather clock counting down to my fate,
Beguiling and brooding, the buttercup blooms,
Alone and alerted to my acute sense of doom.

The brook that bubbles and babbles round shaded bends
Leads the way into bubbling bogs to get lost again.
Self indulgent and broken, bordeaux in a bathrobe,
Falling apart under a black cherry’s bloodstained leaves.

If planting my garden means waiting, bending for you
I might as well sit back and watch as my dreams come untrue.
For wildflowers and windmills belong in the blazing sun’s view,
Brilliant and breathtaking. I know when love’s through.