The dogwood blossoms seem best when I’m alone.
The white one’s brown, mottled kisses
like smudged lipstick on each petal.
I love the blossoms’ four prone petals
thrown back shallow cups of sun
iridescent in the gathering afternoon storm.
Their dancers’ arms interrupt each other,
children, calling, “Me, me! Oh, see my spring.”
Cut now in a glass pitcher
they’re as vulnerable in their perfect beauty
as our most private moments together.
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