Ephemera

Once cut, the flower

Barely a bud, will bloom

and fade withal

in uncommon company.



Wild wedding bouquets

breathless, buoyant

tossed, pressed, the scent

of sadness in the bruised edges.



Cribside hasty fistfuls,

ripped, roots and all.

Woven wilting garlands draped

softly, powdery, sleepily.



Hearthside vessels' burgeoned bouquets,

comfortable, coveted;

the bedraggled opulence

of the season.



Graveside, weighty spikes

fall silently across polished wood.

Selected, but not chosen. Tender clusters

of stillness, regret, hope.



A flower once cut will bloom

for no reason at all, except that it's Tuesday,

on a bare windowsill,

in an empty teacup.