Honeysuckle Vine


In the tepid morning sun the earth is bathed
in shadows of green and light, but I can tell there is more.

My mind wanders delightfully among the possibilities.
The challenge begins – is it too early? Too late?
Wisteria, tea olive, jasmine, honeysuckle…

Is it stealing if it grows wild, if it’s just an untamed vine?
Plucked white, orange, yellow along with the green,
cushioned at the nape between strands of processed hair,
surrounding me with enjoyment.

The smell is intoxicating. I want more.
Oh! Here’s a bush of vines – just one sprig plucked and added to
the bouquet on my head.

He cries out – startling me – “don’t forget the gardenias!”
They’ll be blooming soon.  “Don’t worry – I won’t!”

About justbrinkley

poetry, flash fiction, prompts from a southern granny who should have been a writer.
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