The person sitting next to me is doodling.  Small little flowers.  Each with five petals and a small circle in the middle.  They are begging for color. Yellow.  Or a shade of bright pink.  The flowers--are they daisies?--are asking to be freed from the page, to grow wild, fall to the floor and replace the carpet with hundreds of petals.  They long to push toward the horizon and relieve the lack of concentration, the boredom that comes from meetings like these.  Where can I find such flora, life that consumes the observer and settles things?

© Poem Fix 2012
Photo: Poem Fix

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