The Excavation

(Excavation)

Rubbing daisies between my thumb and forefinger

To procure that garden, if not again then unwithered

unreal like an observatory of pastimes

It gathers and collects

As sweet and dried like pungent flower on my skin

There lays a nursery to rest, beds of fallen flowers

Pockets of rose, black hens and fable

Potions of daffodil and clover

I'll dwell all day showered in sun

Skin won't crimson if time won't fall

Windows aren’t shattered, eyes still peak and hide behind

glass and tender mortar

Ivy grows and seals what grew, elongating faces and

preserving all that misled

Grinding stars are truer than homes that once existed

A lost feeling, where daisies spring hourly,

Replanting dreams in my head

By Isabelle H