I prefer the city at dusk, skies brush-stroked vivid, intensifying
as the backdrop goes black, easier to be alone.
A star lily yawning past bloom, petals curling away, edges sepia.
No amount of water in the vase can rehydrate, avert the terminus.
Does she feel her age? Miss the radiance? Muted, pale, crinkled.
Where are the creatures who have a hundred names for brown?
Who chase the grace of departure, faces upturned to pollen dust
from stamens bees no longer visit, their hundred arms open to catch
petals released to flight, freedom a solitary glide, gravity and wind
ferrying them home where they belong.
Ooh…lovely! Especially love the line “Does she feel her age? miss the radiance?”…ahhh, poignant.