Poetry

Floribunda

The azaleas bloomed in February,
or was it March?
That sultry fading winter when
aromas rushed like blood
into fresh spring.
Not that the world
turned flawless,
but a foothold took root
despite falling hard.

A century later,
or was it 11 years?
You circled your arm
around my shoulders
in the cool dusk rain,
not even lovers,
yet breathlessly
azaleas gave way,
and spring hesitated into summer.
 
Angela Allen
Portland, June 2007
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