How that florid scent
Wafts through your two vents
Making all your senses yield
To wilderness in a field.

How the petals soft
Carry you aloft
To the clouds above us all,
Lightly float and never fall.

How the colors beam
In a matching scheme,
Fine art in a museum
Painting over tedium.

Yet how flowers fail!
Before you they’re pale,
My Lady across the earth,
Rarest blossom the world hath.


-Evan Mantyk

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One Response

  1. Bruce Dale Wise


    Upon the pale and shiny stonework ledge
    sits shell, white vase, and beeswax candle coil.
    Here is a neoclassical-clear edge,
    a spare, fine atmosphere betrayed in oil.
    Peony petals drooping, perky too,
    in yellow, white, red violet, and pink,
    against the wall, a dark gray, background hue;
    one wonders how they smell, sweet, light, or stink.
    The smoothness is disturbed by sharp-shaped conch,
    the long-line grooves and patterns of the vase,
    the copper-finished plate and clip ensconced
    about the sixty-hour candle’s base.
    A New Dutch Realist has been let loose
    where once New Amsterdam was in the News.


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