Azaleas

The invitation came—
come to the museum, walk
in the garden with me,
drink in the azaleas
in their fresh lavenders,
their tulle pinks and bridal whites.  

How I remember them:
paper-thin and blushing
against the low green.

I didn’t go.
I didn’t see them.
Poems are full of such lies.

About The Author

M. Frost lives in the Germantown section of Philadelphia and enjoys walking along Wissahickon creek. Her poetry has appeared in many journals, including the Schuylkill Valley Journal of the Arts and Philadelphia Poets (forthcoming).