Sweet Death

They died today, a slow death.

Blossoms extended fully, their last breath,

Sweet and intoxicating.

 

You appeared last Friday evening, with two dozen of them wrapped in cellophane.

A surprise! Heart leaping in my chest, I took them from you with a kiss.

 

These were not those kind of roses, a de rigueur’ of red,

which I disdain except in Winter.

Glorious colors of joyful orange, shades of soft peach and tangerine

tipped in brilliant pink.

My favorite choice; how did you know?

 

Cutting the ends of their long legs, dipping them in water,

they were crowded together in the crystal,

each sticking their head out and smiling up at me.

 

One week later, I took them out of their water vessel.

Plucking the petals off each head,

it felt cruel when all they had given me was joy.

How do I preserve the memory of them?

How do I hold onto to essence of each one?

 

I did it the wrong way.

You’re supposed to hang them together tied by a string, upside down.

Like Peter, the apostle of Christ who felt it unworthy to be hung like him,

I wonder if all the colors would be drained like Peter’s blood?

All the life, all the joy?

 

I gathered the soft petals and lay them gently, down upon the covers of my bed.

Spread them out while the overhead fan hushed them with a breeze.

 

Hours later, I checked.

They dried properly,

Their death only intensified the colors,

curling up , looking as if I had spilled a large bag of mixed tarot chips.

 

Piled in a bowl now, sitting where they stood before, tall and vibrant.

Now only a memorial to you.

 

Victoria Yeary

Friday evening, May 12th

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About Victoria Yeary

Author Writer
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One Response to Sweet Death

  1. Camie says:

    Very poetic and sentimental. I love fresh cut flowers. It does seem a shame they don’t last long. Drying the petals was a neat idea.

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