The Petal Box

Poetry | JP Legarte

Every spring

when we traverse

sunset evening pathways

softly illuminated by horizon-born

fireflies floating in the wind,

you grasp your handmade, wooden petal

box in your etched, exposed hands.

Embraced

by the shadows

drained from the calling branches,

you rummage the nearby foliage

for petals attached to hidden

beauty. As I trace the indentations

of your tiptoed footsteps, violet

hydrangeas tether your vision

to their open bodies, their petals

a collage of scattered crowns on

their swaying heads.

You pluck a single petal

seamlessly, placing it tenderly

amidst the other petals forming

an array of captured sunset undertones.

I observe remnants

of the elegance stemming

from forsythia, foxgloves, forget-me-nots,

and other blossoms decorating

our surroundings. 

As we navigate back

to the sanded walkways, I ask you

about the reason behind your handpicked

collection. You tell me

you desire to immortalize the designed

splendor spread over washed soils

and damaged lands.

Showers of the skies’

observances lavish natural emotions

over our thin, tattered raincoats. We sprint

toward the bus stop where other flora

take cover under glass panes.