Foldable Blossom Doom
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
Because his fancies were not quite the norm,
The notion of hydrangeas being like
A mad old lady, mind and heart in storm,
Had never opened out in him to strike
Him with her craziness or long-gone charms.
The blueness of her sad, sad brain, though set
On gilded paper shape, still brought him harms
Inside his guts. Her craziness’s threat
(Now he was growing older, older, old)
Burned like a candle coming close inside
Him, near his unlit wick. He thought to fold
Himself to safety from the death implied.
She points the fan at him. Her aim is straight.
He bows. He cannot bat away that fate.
~ Phillip Whidden