The leftover roses murmured bloom to bloom, clutched their thorns, then flung themselves from flower shop windows.
Their absence the next morning puzzled the florist He stared at the empty buckets, and shrugged, “Just as well.” He hated throwing day-late flowers in the trash.
The runaway roses drank in the night sky, exulted in fresh air, rubbed blooms against dandelion fluff, and bared their spines to the wind. Tired petals loosened, sighed and fluttered to the ground. Free at last to discover their roots.
I sink barefoot into dewy grass, twirl through a meadow of untamed blossoms, dream into the clouds, and write poetry that sings to my heart, no longer caring that the phone didn’t ring last week.
(c) Lynne Curry
published in freeflashfiction on February 13, 2025
image by congerdesign from Pixabay
