By | 1 February 2016

A canvas stretches beneath the colours of camellias
and rain. A child has left. The heads are petals

tucked crimson around gold—the stamens, pollen-
thick. A parent lives. Dropped from the stem

they fall intact. A spouse is sutured and well.
Each is a basket held, by those grey brackets

that hid the bud. My plans are undone. Detached
the heads rest on concrete not far from a scatter

of gumnuts and my exhalation of regret. I have
wearied of care
. A wattlebird will make its home.

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