Pansy

So I've come to love the flower
whose name some jerk
shouted at my
brother as we

walked past. Beneath my dormant rose,
it alone bears
the weight of snow.
Pensées. Thoughts no

less numerous than its many
names: Call me to
you. Hearts-ease. Kiss
me ere I rise.

Copyright © 2004 Cathy Smith Bowers All rights reserved
from A Book of Minutes
Iris Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission