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Still Life
with Tulips
Slumped over, tipsy
in broad daylight
having aspired all
through March
to keep
their joy alive,
now afraid
the best days
are behind them,
their movements
too still to invite
notice, they
remain perched
watching the parade
of people
grasping at straws,
yet expressing
no interest
in them,
aware of their
tenuous shelf-life,
while the ones
who might
fancy them,
remain tight lipped.
Weaned from the fields,
only to wind up
asleep on a shelf
out of doors
at the local deli
wishing the sunny sky
were full of clouds
and rain
to ease the pain
of so vivid a day
much too bright
to live up to.
With such low
expectations,
what else is there
but to wait
to be chosen?
How are they still
here without
someone to properly
watch over them?
Knowing what they know,
what life could be,
oh, that their little
guileless fairytale
of loss might still
end in rescue.
Even pets
are at the mercy
of their master's
forlornness,
colorful personalities
being little more
than bids
for attention,
while the truth
ekes away
as odorless
as a pastel illustration
or a synthetic flower.
When did dawn
become
the only place
they could truly
be themselves?
Before the days
unfurl their
Chinese box-like
series of
contractions.
Putting on
colorful clothes
mourning after morning
longing to
be desired
before its too late.
Cut down
in their prime,
born merely
to watch us
from the safety
of pedestrian vessels
as we perform chores
like strained monks
who believe
the only way to
become closer
to God
is to lose ourselves.
But we too are alive.
Cheap, greedy,
chockfull of disappointment.
If we could only stop
long enough
to notice them
as we go about
doing the same things
over and over
day after day
over and over
day after day
without the slightest
mindfulness.
If we could cry
for what we don’t want
as much as
what we do,
our grief
might not be
love’s only souvenir.
03/30/24
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