With life and limb risked climbing
thirty feet up the cottonwood tree
to gather first offerings
to charm my first girlfriend:
Announced a template
for the rest of my life-
a dreamer, a romantic.
I'd plucked dozens of fine branches,
clustered with green seeds,
neatly arranged near the swing set.
Cottonwood pearls,
What better proof of my love?
I don't imagine Molly ever saw
things my way, treasuring
true romance in that trove
of early summer's gems-
she quietly shook her head,
'What was he thinking? ' Or,
'No way to treat a princess.'
Unbridled, an eight year-old's
Love burst, never to blossom,
or so I thought as I watched
Molly walk away in a shrug.
The next day in summer's heat,
the blessed things bloomed,
lying apart from their host:
My dying love, sinking heap
of cotton-puff clouds strewn
amongst criss-crossed branches,
lying forlorn, never taking root
or to be held and praised-
leaves losing their luster,
thin hearts wilting in the sun.
I hauled them into the alley.
Fickle flowers of childhood
destined me to disguise
rejection and hurt, couched
in wistful smiles and poems.
Within this feigned lament,
even as I gaze and write,
I climb
hand over
fist, now
reaching
for the
sky.
Phillip Michael Sawatzky
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fickle-flowers/
