Hyacinths

By Dolly Bongjang

A trod upon the fields,
And I find a bloom of hyacinths.
The field of Miss Meadows,
I pick hues of purples and yellows.

I walk back to my home,
And on my fence is a strigiform.
Crowns and cryptics buried,
My garden I walk upon, bare feet.

The pot is almost done,
And a can of white paint is upturned.
The yellows in faux white
Now shall remain unidentified.

She scrutinizes me,
As among my created debris,
With such bloody knuckles,
I water the remaining purples.