It is confusion
I'm picking petals off a fuchsia,
one by one
Sun rays beaming down
and I am not wearing
a hat to
protect myself from
developing a
dreadful headache
I'll sit in the shade
and wade in the waves of the sea
that holds the key to what might be,
to what might be
sitting on a bench
I spot a touch of wood-rot
and a wrench on the floor
my feet about two inches away from a collection of nettles,
I want to go inside
for a brew; put on the kettle
orange Sun having fun
watching me
peeling away
layer by layer,
not due to the orange Sun
and definitely not due to me,
but indeed because of you
cocooned
here for now
picking these petals, picking these petals
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