My Very Own Pentecost

for eight long years, i waited
until the tulips lost their blooms
the irises withered back
my centenarian roses flashed their pert buds
my lenten season ends not with a resurrection
but with the full, bright smiles of my asian lilies
stargazer lilies
the full luscious folds of heirloom roses
traded among the true believers
not content to settle for some hearty rose that
comes in a ten pound pale

when the scents and myriad blossom of my holy trinity,
(forget not the suffering hydrangeas and their
maddening thirst) fills my garden, the
suffering of my penance is over

my own true pentecost has arrived, and the
serenity of their spirit settles into my bones.

spring is the cruelest season, but when
summer arrives with its hot, halcyon days,
my toes and nails and heels and calves
dirt splattered
I sprawl beneath my favorite tree and
take stock in my own lenten reflections
until the whisp of the wind comes forth
carrying me into my new year

not even the sun in in bright blue sky can
match my own freckled grin

when the bright smiles and luscious folds arrive,
I once again find my peace.


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