A.W. Books & Poetry

Paisley pink blooms

Twirl like flagrant fumes

In a silky-winded noon;

Singing sweetly like perfume,

Smiling like the pale moon.

Until autumn’s first call,

When the blooms halt their fall

As a leafy musk cloaks the auls.

Only then, the flowers’ final flight stalls.

As they kiss the clay earth with a final wrawl

And stare up at the bleached sun in dying awe.

-Annalise Wellman