by Taylor Graham

She gathers her flowers about her
embroidered on black –

the hours of humming fingers
at hoop and loom –

as she walks among the infant lemon
trees, the succulents and

hollyhocks, appraising this and that,
looking beyond

each row as if window-
shopping paradise;

tosses her silken petals
into place – the intricate ordered

layering of garments.
The breeze is her own making.

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