‘the flowers are not embarrased’
Lance T. Young
He met her eyes in a coffeeshop.
Blue and holding secrets, he held them for as long as he could
but then he needed a drink.
Later that night he worked feverishly — all poets are a little
mad — writing her wooing and winning lines of rhyme about her
eyes.
When he first touched her hair his hands trembled and she
smiled and kissed him hard. He wrote more poetry about her
hair using words like "radiant," "fire," and "sun."
She liked it all very much. She wore tight sweaters and said
she believed in "free love".
On a sweaty night they made love in a field where yellow
flowers lived — she said it would be "cosmic".
But later, when he watched her breathing and the flowers
stared expectantly at them both he knew that nothing, let
alone love, was free.
And the flowers swayed gently in the breeze as if in
agreement.
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