Robyn Sarah

For E.B. The sprig of unknown bloom you sent last fall spent the long winter drying on my wall, mounted on black. But it had turned to fluff some months ago. Tonight I took it down because I thought that I had had enough of staring at it. Brittle, dry and brown, it seemed to speak too plainly of a waste of friendship, forced to flower, culled in haste. So, after months of fearing to walk past in case the stir should scatter it to bits, I took it out to scatter it at last with my own breath, and so to call us quits.