Pale and translucent as pink lemonade, <br />the morning sun filtered its petals <br />to pure lightness; <br /> <br />a saffron haze <br />near the stem, pallid fuchsia at its tips, <br />it yawns, unfurling its petals into <br />the summer air laden with mist <br />and amber seed. <br /> <br />The leaves cluster around its stem, <br />as though protecting its emerald heart <br />from the gardener’s shears; <br />every day an excruciating uncertainty; <br /> <br />the bees burrow deep <br />into its fuzzy heart <br />the way the pestle enters <br />the mortar; their famished <br />mouths can decimate <br />the life from this fragile bloom. <br /> <br />Every day the gardener <br />parks his rusty wheelbarrow <br />by the garden gate, <br />green with leaves and ivy, <br />and considers <br />plucking the precious blossom <br />from the sill; <br /> <br />an executioner of the garden, <br />the dahlia’s life dependant <br />upon his will.<br /><br />Caroline Misner<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dahlia-in-the-window/
