Plucking Petals in the Garden of Misgivings

Plucking Petals in the Garden of Misgivings Love is a garden. But not every bloom is beautiful. Late last night my sweetheart sowed a sinister seed while somewhere she wasn't supposed to be. Fertilized by her slurred-word phone call, the gut-gnashing phrase he's simply a friend, and nurtured further by her driveway - car-less at six o'clock this morning - thoughts of the worst are blossoming: vine-like, strangling my sanity; the endless stream of deep suspicions are petals of paranoia I compulsively pluck. Pluck! She's cheating! Pluck! She's not. Pluck! How could she! Pluck! She wouldn't. Pluck! Would she? Pluck! Pluck! Pluck! Pluck! So go the sounds that prelude the fall - the coming of a killing freeze.