there are eleven days in a week,
and the months pass by in fiery torrent
with only the moments spent sleeping containing the only clarity
that keeps the eyes of dreamers
peeping for youth.
a transient & solitary sunflower sits
on the broken mass of a windowledge planter box
next to the spot she planted her engagement ring,
hoping to watch happiness and fidelity sprout
into the yellows and violets and sunbursts of
long-lasting fulfilling and matrimonial promises,
but no home can bloom when it doesn’t rain,
and the months have been temperamental
at best.
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