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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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