She snuck out to the garden
at night armed with a
torch to track
down what she was
after. In the morning
though all
was discovered.
The acrid smell.
The soft red smears on
her fingertips slightysticky but
what gave it away was the
smattered trail of vermillion petals
leading up to her
desk (like some forward-thinking Hansel
being led by his parents into
the forest placed them there)
The geraniums sat
dismayed in a Black Douglas tumbler
stolen in darkness.
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