Your words come to me, handtied.
I am garlanded.
Milkvetch woven among pear blossom,
mistletoe between the honeysuckle,
oak leaf geranium forms a crown
and myrtle;
myrtle makes it whole.
I am overcome
by this shower of flowers,
intoxicated by the scent of sage.
My garden grows empty 
in these strange days,
when all I can plant
takes time to bear fruit.
My language feels stilted,
my mind overwhelmed.
My only reply;
to wreathe you in daisies.
Sun yellow eyes in bright white,
overlooked and trodden over
in lawns and verges.
I will claim 
every last one,
and cover you 
in petal kisses. 

(From the April 11th prompt)

About the Author:

Beth Hartley is a poet of people and place, the transient and the eternal. She makes: home, faith, work, words and dinner. Itchy Preacher, always Mama. Part of the Fen Speak team – Ely’s poetry and spoken word event. Find her at: 


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