Orchid
       by Sarah Elizabeth Hume


   The orchid has sprung,
   small and spiked with lips that spur.
   She is rooted deep within her dark bed
   perfume sweet as nectar in the summer air.

   And though she bears the fairest gown
   in a garden full of tempting blooms,
   she suffers me as the nightshade would
   and stings without a thorny vine.

   She is cruel to me,
   bringing brutal memories
   of a past love lost on a cool summer morn
   when the sky did not fair in robins egg blue
   and storms rolled in with stony gray.
  
   And when the rain flowed it was bittersweet,
   giving her thirsty leaves a drink
   but matching the tears that flooded my cheek.
   And she stood gazing without a whisper of comfort,
   her petals vivid and new like fresh paint spread upon 
   an ivory canvas.