By Shelly Norris
PROMPT — If only ...
Gangly, disheveled thickets sprout
beneath her east windows, harden
and bloom cold springs, thrive arid summers,
shed premature falls, sleep long bitter winters
by their own leave seeking no permission.
Disobedient, they titter secrets upon
hot breezes. Usurpers of boundaries,
they clamor leggy for sun, gulp scalding rays
like parched cattle traders. Canary yellow
and Pepto pink, they clash audaciously,
flaunt spare inadequate blossoms
then strip, tossing petals about
littering the immaculate lawn.
And for all these trespasses
display no shame! Worse, they love her—
love her not— as she’d planned to be loved
the way cultured well-mannered
American Beauties of her Camelot dreams
would love her, if only.
She sheared them, poisoned them,
burned them. To which they answered
growing bolder, clashing louder
refusing to tone it down. She turns
her back on their sass as they grow brash,
retires indoors where she paints
demure Victorian roses
in antiqued mauves and dulcet blues
on ceilings, walls, and window glass,
arranges each stem and bud and bloom
in prim and proper poses on thorn-less canes
where they remain modest and never leave
without first politely excusing themselves.
Currently itinerant, Shelly Norris hangs out on the Montana Hi Line near Malta. A Wyoming native, Norris began writing poetry around the age of 12. Her poems and short fiction appear in a variety of publications. Her first collection titled Hyperbola debuted in February, 2024.
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