Written Right Now @ Frantic Rabbit – participating by web connection.

When marigolds bloom, they turn to the sun,
mirroring Apollo’s face with their own.
And every marigold is well-begun,
planting roots in earth, and ignoring stone.
Belonging as yet to no garden plot,
they sit lonely in tiny plastic bins,
waiting for a moment — a chance or shot
to nestle in earth, and forget the sins
of their previous dark incarnations.
For surely these creatures are learning joy,
and forgetting earlier misery.
Thus, when they stand planted at their stations,
the sorrows of others they will destroy,
and open in them, blooms of mystery.

In other news, my co-dorm-master’s grandmother died. I am covering dormitory in his absence, and have a house-full of children.

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4 comments

  1. Was wondering where you were . . .

    Good luck with the kiddies.
    My other news Is I’m going to survival school.
    More proof from the god’s I should write for Werewolf, I get to learn to survive in the woods using only my hands, and THEN get to get ~really~ beaten up concentration camp style.
    Tell me another writer in our line that has that sort of experience to pull on 😛

  2. Was wondering where you were . . .

    Good luck with the kiddies.
    My other news Is I’m going to survival school.
    More proof from the god’s I should write for Werewolf, I get to learn to survive in the woods using only my hands, and THEN get to get ~really~ beaten up concentration camp style.
    Tell me another writer in our line that has that sort of experience to pull on 😛

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