Geraniums

Parched twine cuts the skin of my thumb as I carefully untie the thread around my journal.

My hand runs over the faded paper; like dried flowers from summer, swollen clouds to puncture with my pen.

I stumble through the silence after an avalanche, the twisting clothesline in my stomach and the bales of cotton in my head.

I run to feel the wind in my hair, my thoughts rattling like a badly driven car.

I miss the beat to an old, schoolyard song and hum in misshapen verses.

I sit cross-legged, the jute meshwork of the window seat painted onto my calf.

I stare at the geraniums on the other side of the glass, a dewdrop clinging to the deep purple of it’s petals.

It is elegant in the way it tricks you into believing it is ordinary.

Dusted with misty cobwebs and pollen grains like powdered sugar.

I watch the edges of each flower ruffle with the temperamental breeze, chiffon skirts protecting their modesty.

I look up to see that the clouds have turned more white than grey.

I wrap the twine around my journal.

The torrential rain has given way to a light, blue sky drizzle.

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