They may have grown in a wood
or a garden, wholly in bloom.
They now rise from the vase
in a sovereign floating of joy :
crysanthemums in bud, narcissus,
full-blown peonies and tulips,
fulfilling themselves, they ripple
and throb with passion. They speak
to each other.
One bloom has fallen, an arabesque
of salmon pink. The empty shells
and one small insect add a spiritual
dimension, mortality’s immediency,
a yearning for the unattainble.
Those delicate blossoms hang
against the blue sky, nostalgic
for eternity.
