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Pollen
Single flower, fingers
curled and knuckled a deep purple,
you release your grasp––
yellow fairy dust drops
in a pile beneath you, last effort
to pollinate the green
paint of my windowsill.
Sunlight still sparking
your dried crown of pistils––
coneflower or daisy or
whatever you once were––
the dust of you is more lovely.
by Marie Ostarello
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