My Wisteria
Stagnant in December, a bare stick clinging
to a trellis—like a woman
stranded in the wind without the proper overcoat.
Memories of Cicada filled nights,
and perfume,
its scent misting the veranda lamps with ribbons
of light pouring on purple petals,
she remembers:
A lilac shawl draped over her,
In her season,
she was cloaked in everything that flowered.
Now, another year etches itself on her gnarled branches,
She has no choice but to be content
until the murmurs
Of all that blooms purple
happen, yet once again.
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