John Quill. Imagined in a springtime walk
as a flowering 18th century poet
penning works with turkey, goose, and swan feathers,
living in a garret with no flat-screen television
only rough hewn stone, the occasional chirp of a sparrow, a robin.
A lonely but deep man.
Your golden flowers.
The hue of distilled sun, and honey, and lemons.
Heralding Spring dalliance,
boughs of promise.
I clip and set you in a vase on the table.