as the wind pushes through the trees,
creating a symphony with one whoosh,
and the morning birds take flight,
I take out the garbage, shivering in shorts.
after surfing in the sideways rain,
I venture to a shoppe to consider flowers,
marigolds and lavender for someone's smile,
but the florist gives the business about love.
the sun sets early in November,
and I pick up petals and steal metal
to melt at midnight, shape with words,
to send a postcard to the stars and stick around.
in spite of rust and ruined bouquets,
the wind is still pushing me,
past the florist and his negativity,
past the past, and into the making of a memory.