pm poetry

Noses pressed to blooms,
sharp, sweet, and dewed
by nocturn showers.

The class crowds the flowers
as thick clouds
spit down chilly mists.

Soaked fabric clings
to their slight frames,
but they don’t seem
to notice.

We’ve been waiting
twenty minutes
for the conservatory
to grant us
warmth and entry.

I check my
wet watch face once more,
fretting over where and when
we ought to be-

huddling under an awning,
watching the kids
and listening
to the tip tap tapping
of vague rain.

They wouldn’t care
if we never got in.
They have no obligation,
no thorny impatience.

Oh, to unwind
off my trellis
and smell
the honey roses.

Oh, to grow
again.