I grow these seeds
for my dearest friend
because I said I’d
open every closet
in every dream
until I find the bear pelt.

This morning, a white,
limp thing lies in a pot.
Cigarette ash, I think.
In this moment
I have company:
I stand in the yard with an impulse
to remove my poison.

But it can't be ash,
not after last night's rain.
I look closer
and see that it fell from
the trees that line the fence.
It is a single petal;

I leave it where it is.

Chris Arnold (Western Australia)

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