she loves me she loves me not
I’m lost inside a rose garden
the one I never promised you
my only preoccupation
now that I’ve become a wanderer
come fall maybe I’ll cut them back
or maybe I’ll turn into a snowbird
giving them the freedom
to fend for themselves
looking at my hands
wrinkled & sore & ever useful
I’m reminded of the reds & yellows
living & dying like clockwork
on occasion one or two held captive
inside my failing heart
june two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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