Armfuls II

Purple azaleas bloom,
and I’ve brought armfuls.
I plucked them to scatter here
in your path as you
fade. Please, walk towards the sunset.
When you turn away

from here, take an armful to
be crushed, please take care
to tread lightly as you walk
out. I’ll send flowers
without words for each small step.
You know you want to

leave home often although you
hate to decide why.
I know you’ll leave me in the
shape of an armful
when you walk away. Make your
steps lightly on the

flowers, each step soft, silent,
armfuls of aza-
lea flowers, armfuls of
azaleas scat-
tered before you. Then go crush-
ing with your parting

steps. You need a change of air;
you think I will cry.
Humble armfuls of aza-
leas won’t shed tears.
Please, please go away at last.
Without words I will

gather armfuls of aza-
lea flowers, armfuls of
purple spread along
pathways. Grown weary of me,
know that for the life
of me I’m at last

sickened with the sight of my
tears with you marching
briskly over those withered armfuls.
The day will come when
azaleas shall not shed
tears. Azaleas by the

armful — the azaleas
flaming hillside — send
you away wordlessly. So please,
go. Walk into the
sunset, weaving armfuls of
tears onto your path.