The Affair of the Flowers

I'm not sure but I suspect the

flowers my wife planted in the spring

that have now grown strong and bright

are having an affair.





She who used to complain about the

boredom in our lives now sits in

a wickerchair on the patio, watching

like an old time moralist for evidence of sin.





And at night once, absent from our

bed, I caught her peering quietly

from a window, silent as a mole,

her face feverish, her mouth a perfect round O.

© Gary Robinson