It’s a peculiar sight–

blood on the back hem of the skirt

she wore while building cities out of sand.

It is October.

The summer’s sun now gone.

The stain now brown,

camouflaging with the cotton.

The skirt catches fire,

the sandbox turned fire pit

expanding in the yard

effacing the grass and dandelions,

creeping toward the fence with every pig roast.

But what do I care?

After all,

just imagine what people would say

if she didn’t get rid of the wild flowers.



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