Heirlooms planted more than forty years ago to celebrate this home— I still tend them. For their brief season, beige and burgundy blossoms fill my largest vases. After a storm dozens lie ravished on the lawn. Harvesting the fallen to liven my bouquets, I trade bare stalks for full, clip spent flowers. New blooms cleave to their withered sisters, as the living cling to the dead, and I must gentle them away under the mute scrutiny of fresh yellow tongues.
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