Five leaves cup a tender flower,
petals layered over petals; deep
inside, seedlings not yet conceived
are protected by the blanket
of crimson velvet, reminiscent
of a vellux quilt: Perfection
that begs to be touched.

A sharp needle in the finger;
and a deep red liquid blossoms.
The same color grows from stem
and wound. The edges of the silken
petals curl back. Red matures,
rusts to black, breaking up --

What has happened?

You scissored the stem, changed
the water each day, crushed
the aspirin, just like Grandma said;
still, the last petals are floating
to the ground; the leaves droop
over the cracked glass table:
Only the thorns remain.