Nov 11
Yellow Sweater's picture

(with the daffodils)

The impressionistic ecstasy of you in a field of flowers.

I thought you were a daffodil, a beautiful one of many, until sobbing on the pavement, I saw the truth of things. Daffodils don’t cause tears unless they are bashfully gripped. Desperate hands, delicate stems; fingernails and tender green. 

Your vague freedom broke my heart. The way you lilted in the wind. Your yellow was fleeting and full. The poppies were jealous. 

My melancholy is reflected in Monet's cloudy ponds. All the almost warm blotches are flowers, sad, soft flowers. Where are you at midnight? When the pastels have faded entirely? Where are you when I trace your shape? When my fingernails crease your almost green? 

I thought I saw you dancing (with the daffodils)