Flowers and Toys

Is the pattern
instilled within so long ago
to begin again –
running, constantly running
from one wild flower to another
longing for a sweeter scent
or more vivid, delicate petals?
And who, this time,
is the fleer to be –
you or I?
Each fear entrapment,
a seeping of the soul
subtly transferred to the possession
of the other.
Both have sought through
countless meadows,
seeking that rare blossom,
headier in fragrance
than all the rest.
Like children at Christmas
we grab one toy to our breasts,
proclaiming it our favorite,
our most precious treasure,
only to cast it aside
in favor of another –
stuffing memories into small places
squeezing stuffing from edges frayed
only to leave a soiled vestige
of childhood fancy
lying half off the shelf,
to tumble down forgotten.
Is the pattern to begin again –
if so, which of us is the toy?

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