Sunday, November 13, 2011

like days

         

          the flowers,


yellow,
somehow
haven’t died,
though they haven’t
seen dirt
in weeks.

in the morning,
you trimmed
their stems
again and
arranged them,
again,
so they could
stay with us.

          gracing
the
dining table.
they don’t even
know
they’re beautiful,
these flowers;

          their petals
falling to the
tablecloth
like days.
           
          nothing
so evanescent
as their
yellow starbursts,

but heartbeats.

           then 
wind and rain -

and sun.

it doesn’t matter
in the end,

does it?

that the flowers
don’t understand

          how

amazed
we are 

by them.


...

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