Uploaded on April 2, 2012
Last fall,
When you were still here,
You planted the purple crocus
For me.
As promised,
It showed up —
Unlike you.
I reached down to touch it,
And got sliced open
By the thorns
On the nearby rosebush.
My blood
Dripped on the ground,
As I reached down,
Gently touched
That purple crocus,
And yanked it out.
—Cheryl Doyle-Ruffing
03.02.2024: Well, that’s sort of an interesting poem that I wrote.