The Crocus

The Crocus

Something struck my heart once.
It wasn't a sting or a stab or a sticking of sorts
but a striking shard of sentiment
that made my heart stop.

It turned my meticulous monotony
into an operatic heart-wrenching melody
and although I cannot trace where it first began
the change in beat is ever fresh.

Following the musical rhythm, I found a garden
of boys and girls, chanting familiar chansons
with lungs so clear and innocent
that assumed the air from my own
and left me breathless.

In this moment, only my heart knew
how to slow down to allow me another chance.

I did not want another chance.

Like a toppling pillar
my life curved on a downward slope beneath the ground
awakening my dreams, putting to bed my delusions,
turning on the light of the afterlife.

My eyes stretched over the park, the kids at play, singing
songs of the earth of which I would soon be a part.
My life held a quiet semblance of truth
that I could find after all.

Pictures that filled my photo albums once
do not appear in the final cut of what I remember best
be it the subdued lions at the zoo
or my mother ironing her dress
all memories that have no meaning
in this last minute of dreaming

my heart opens its doors while my lungs close theirs
as a little girl brings me a flower,
a crocus, to which she was once deathly allergic
affects her not a single spot
since she embraced them for an hour
before she came to the garden.

She asks if I like the flower,
but I cannot speak.
I place her hand on my heart
for one last beat
and slip into the semblance of a smile
that fades her face from mine.

Andrew Vlasblom