The flowers started to die long ago,
back when they were picked. Their brilliant
perky smiles belie their terminal condition and,
good intentions aside, we become palliative care.
We arrange them in a vase in the sunshine, keep
their water topped up, and gradually
pull out the drooping, spent blossoms,
move them into smaller and smaller vases,
trim and re-trim their stems
until the last bloom
fades, slumps and dies.
“Flowers for me?
Thank you how lovely. I’ll get a vase.”
Posted in A New Poem Every Morning
and tagged a dark side of flowers
, new poem every morning