Mira Martin-Parker Full Moon in the Dahlia Garden Who would have thought the reds with the pointed things would go at it like that with the perky yellow pompoms? And who would have thought that on the dirt path where the blacks and the burgundies made joy, the large white heads would escape from their stems like fireworks? And the young ones, still budding and painted candy orange, what in the world made them throw themselves over the fence and fall face down into the green stalks? The small fairy drops got curious and crept up the hill by the bird of paradise, where everything was covered with a light coating of mist. They didn't care about the propeller plants, those purple starmongers, they took everything by force and even their hot pink spikes refused to turn brown at the tips. The bronze soldier was the only witness—in the pale blue light, in the dimness—he peeked through the oak trees and saw all those nasty moments, all those magnificent burstings.

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