Seated on a purple mat
I open the wood, engraved
box which holds
small pieces of my father
I remove the top
Exposing him to fresh air, sunlight
Small sprinkles of ash with
larger, more defined pieces of hard bone
resting on top
Running my finger along the rim
it becomes covered in his dust
I begin to nourish my orchid with his ashes
Wondering
is he nourished in return

Do you feel your body seperating again?
Do you know?
Was your spirit ****** into the flower ***?
Or the creases of my porch mat?