Stories are like petals,

falling from the branches,

a heavy head of a flower,

spinning across rivers,

landing in a someone’s hair,

gathering at the mouth

of a creek.

Plucked off clothes,

clumping in street corners with

paper cups and discarded papers.

For a moment,

they dance across the world,

warmed by blue skies and

carried to a yard where a

young boy gathers them in fistfuls and

shoves them onto papers while

an older woman places them to

dry on her writing desk.

Lunch heating in a microwave

as the teenage girl blushes when a

boy’s fingers caress them from

her hair while

an older woman dumps a couple in her

water as she sits on her

favorite bench, a notebook tucked

at her side.

Full of water,

the petals leave behind watermarks –

a barely there imprint.

Soon to be gathered by

the chasing wind,

the mark disappearing underneath

the sun and baby blue skies.


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