It must be summer, as our poet Claire Booker leaves behind the winter jasmine, on Day 584 of the daily poems.
Turning point
White gabardine, cinched,
wrong kind of heels –
she’s discovering new muscles,
executes a three point turn: shrieks
on the paving shine,
(reckless wheels)
leaves behind the racks
of winter jasmine, dogwoods, ivy,
rows of loppers, shears and rakes –
heads for the merest hint
of pansy sweetness:
indigo, scarlet, piebald whites.
Leans further in for the perkiest pot.
Claire Booker