after Courtney Love
Tiny, four leaf
vibrating and glistening.
Sprouted on
the hillside of her yard, listening
to the murmur of cutting blades.
The size of dimes,
drops of ink. Theirs is a secret
fragility when held in hand,
they would crinkle from the July heat.
Delicate not for the sake of being romantic
but for the purpose of being alive.
Little fires of wealth everywhere,
in April. Reminding one of bruises
from fingertips. Whose fingertips?
Maybe we’ll learn in time who planted
the flowers, their plan always in mind.
Or the master cultivator will remain unknown, free.
Gone like horses replaced with finer,
faster things. Thin stems that break but
withstand the wind. Who remembers
the shades of purple set against
a manicured yard? If not the young
girls who pluck the violets, only to have them
die in their hands?
