A POETs CRUSH IS FICKLE

Happened upon black-eyed Susans, so bright and beautiful. I stopped and looked, snapped a picture with my cell, drew back breath and sighed; eyed with appreciation, didn’t matter where I found this gregarious garden before I set out on an inside adventure with books. But stunned by the sunny disposition of this carefree crop, my eyes popp’n with pure joy. I soaked up the inverted petals. I just wrote about your yellow suds, and oh how they froth and yield a smile - on my lips, in my eyes, and my heart. How do, perennials! I will forget your patch but another bouquet will be dispatched. In afterglow I fill my bag with poets: Hughes, Frost, Angelou, Greger and Glück. You see I’ve already moved on, forgotten thee. Leaving the library.