Poetry in Motion

Paper-thin, tripartite, the small blossoms of the dried hydrangea bloom

 

Jade green, translucent, like a whisper of summer

 

under the trees, in the shade, out behind your grandmother’s kitchen door

 

with smells of earth and loam and fresh-made bread wafting on the breeze

 

 

becomes a mere mulchy mess

 

under the chubby hands of a very inquisitive two-year old.