BY HARRY WAITZMAN
Bled by time, tamped by cold,
they lie crushed in March.
Once a red flower embraced me,
twined around my neck,
muffling cries of ecstasy.
I learned wisdom from this Chinese
friend who droused in snow
and cuddled in drifts of smoke.
Her petals touched my lips
to be quiet and remember.
Live a little, love a lot
bright petals arenโt forever.
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