One in a rock quarry pool in winter,
Another in a pond now covered by a highway,
(Not the water body the white thing came from.)
Also an orphan in a musty hot room upstairs.
One in a door held shut by a friend,
Another on a sleepingbaglandscaped parlor floor.
(It was rolled up and denied further camp breaks.)
Also a bloom dropped on Big Brother's record rack.
One in the Homesteads on a November day,
Another outside Allison Hall, in the parking area.
(Why did you wait till then to reveal yourself?)
Also a bud aborted at the end of a muted phone.
One in Athen's public housing projects,
Another inside a shed, hiding from truth in summer.
(Its Faulkner's fault for creating Caddy, I swear.)
Also the blossom lost when the grande dame fell.
One in a sick room, smelling of hushpuppies,
Another beside a lake formed by a land baron preacher.
(There was little joy abiding in/surrounding that fancy home.)
Also a bloomer in a trailer bedroom on Snake Pit Road.
There remains one flower still carried, not yet cast away.
Whether it may reach mighty Everest's summit,
Be pressed between the covers of a library tome,
Or merely dropped into a six foot plot remains unknown.