Chrysanthemums

They stand in rows

Brown paper bags on their

Heads tied with a single

Thread – Grandpa’s

Mistresses.

Chrysanthemums were

His last love.

He undressed them-

Freeing the black thread -

Cupping each bloom in his

Hand – embracing – caressing -

Stroking them.

They in turn seduce him

With their glory

Their yellow incurving

Petals.

He would spray the layers

With mist – the pinks and

Reds bringing back

His first love – her sweet

Girlie moistness.

He works on them gently

Parting and lifting

Each petal as he’d

Held her full breasts in

His hands all those years

Ago - her golden -

Hair like the summer’s

Sun.

He remembers her

Fragrance as he places

The blooms in a glass.

Remembers her young curves -

Her eyes – her sweet lips

Closes his eyes tightly.

A tear frees itself – runs slowly

Down his cheek

And he realises that

Nothing – nothing -

Could ever compete with

That beauty – the

Beauty of a first –

Love.