At the edges of the mountains
the bones of old pulleys
graves of dead sluices
are piled underneath layers
of rockfall and regrowth
machinery of the gold-that-wasn’t
the people with fools’ dreams
left nothing of themselves
sometimes though
in the skeletons of old cabins
we children were never meant
to find
we would pull out old sunflower labels
from under the floorboards
the only gold that
any of us ever
found
Sunflower – False Riches
Every May, I do a series of poems based on Victorian flower meanings. Welcome to the Darling Buds.
For more deceptive treasure, my fantasy novel, The Guests of Honor, is available here. Its sequel, With Honor Intact, can be found here.
Cat Amesbury 