Photo by Pauline Bernfeld on Unsplash

The Beauty of Ephemeral Things

Poetry

Dragging my load of trash one dewy
morning to an overladen bin, I was
held back by the browned, withered heads
of a discarded bouquet of
chrysanthemums
peering at me
from beneath
the sagging
weight of
random
greasy
refuse —

The mums were — or what used
to be, before they were
flattened or smalled
by time or burden or both —
the huge kind, fluffy glorious pompoms
each to be held alone on the palm of a hand,
lightweight for a crowd of petals.

I didn’t feel sad for the flowers.
I didn’t feel sad for myself.

The flowers held their shapes against
the browning of the edges of each petal
creeping towards the core.
The petals refused to fall, to detach
as they catch the leeching juices
of random rotting things
and that morning’s dew.