Memory is an invasive plant

Why, when I hear “bittersweet”
do I think of a favorite crayon
that never matched, never fit?
Then somehow I remember
the color of campfire embers
and hiking after the fire
through blackened forests
full of new blooms.

Because all memories
are bittersweet, brambles,
embers of the past,
enriching tear-watered
soil where life
can flourish anew.


This poem was inspired by the second paint chip octave prompt. This time, I decided to try the form of octave that begins as a question or dilemma and is followed by an answering sestina.
I’ve had the bad habit of calling any plant with orange berries “bittersweet,” but I finally decided to learn about the actual plant. Sometimes, ignorance is bliss.


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