they were a gift,
unwanted, the first
of their kind,
a lonely reminder.
they needed life,
water and a vase,
maybe a jug or jar.

so they sat there,
on the dresser,
wrapped in plastic,
bound in ugly rubber--
condemned, like me.
they did not rot,
not as i had hoped.
instead, the petals
browned under the
artificial light,
wrinkled and shriveled.

i let them fester the
way my heart does,
but, as if in spite,
they did not dry up.
they stole moisture--
though i cannot
imagine how--
and from their death
emerged life.
life in the form of
a fuzzy white fungus.