Armfuls

Purple azaleas have blossomed
and I have brought armfuls here. I plucked
them to scatter in your path as you fade away.
Oh yes, walk into the sunset.

When you turn away from here, take an
armful to be crushed, take care to
tread lightly as you walk out. I’ll send
flowers without words as you go each step.

You know you want to leave home often
even though you hate to decide why.
I know you’ll leave me in the shape of
an armful when you walk away.

Make your step lightly on the flowers,
each step soft and silent with
armfuls of azalea flowers,
armfuls of azaleas scattered.

Then go crushing with your parting steps.
You need a change of air; you think I
will cry. Humble armfuls of flowers
won’t shed tears. Please go away at last.

Off without a word I shall gather
armfuls of azalea flowers
armfuls of purple to spread
along the pathways. Grown weary of

me, know that for the life of me I
am 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 a
tear. Azaleas by the armful—
the azaleas flaming hillside—
shall send you away without a word.