Poems
come fast and slow
lately, these days
in the thirsty mornings
or in the sting of lemon tea
on my lips
when I’m on my own at night.
Poems
not by the dust of stars
nor in the fire of rockets.
Just a few flowers
in my garden where nothing grows
just a few flowers
among the single fig
of my spring
unnamed weeds
scraggly, unwelcome green
still my green
still my spring.
Poems—
just a little breath
a little blood
a heart that beats
leaves from tired stems
and grows
the last living petal.
One day they’ll all be gone
in a million forgotten raindrops
that cling to the hope
of a few flowers.
ABOUT:
L. Quattrochi is an eighteen-year-old writer with a passion for poetry, painting, baking,
housecleaning, early childhood education, and music. She wants to try and learn a bit of
everything. Having started her literary career by self-publishing (she is the author of a self-published poetry book called Soul Oil), she is now working on a fictionalized
memoir/autobiography. She writes poetry simply because it’s always inside her, and it helps quiet the noise in her head. Follow @lydiaquattrochi for updates on Instagram, https://www.teenink.com/users/Lydiaq and https://www.facebook.com/lydia.quattrochi/
Comments