Treasure Island

David McLansky

(5/24/1944 / New York City)

The Gift


I gave to her a marigold
Plucked from the sea cliff bank;
Her eyes grew wild and chilly cold
At I so bold and frank;

She put the flower in her book
And handed it to me;
Then strode she off, the grass it shook
As she marched along the sea;

The golden flower that I had killed
In my sudden lover's rush,
Lies withered on the grassy hill
‘Mid the nettles in the brush.

Submitted: Friday, February 22, 2013

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