When touched
seeds spills on the page.
The habitual curve
toward the sun.
Red, of course,
as blood just before it dries,
a bandana
left in a south-facing window.
Its green days are long gone;
no one grows cockscomb
for its green.
This one is plucked from my garden;
my mother’s grew tall as children,
blooms as wide as your hand.
It’s hard to find those now.