The exercise was fourteen lines from me
today. I sought a topic for my pen,
and thought to draw the angry energy
my daughter broadcasts often and again.
Except as I set out to catch a phrase,
my net attention trolling for conceit,
I f und myself distracted by the sprays
of rhododendron blooming on each street.

Beloved’s anger takes on rosy hue,
and vernal purple carries her contempt.
Her harshest judgment melts to April dew
as freesias waft the scent of something dreamt
by lavender wisteria, or birds
that sip the salvia, eluding words.

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