From the perspective of a bud vase. |
I am a ceramic bud vase, and being kilned has taught me patience, what it means to harbor a red rose, a thorny stem. I have been carefully planned: born of Earth’s fine clay, molded by agile hands, baked long enough for me to function, I exist as a form of art. I have been shipped all right, yet I have also been chosen. Now, far from the skill of the potter’s hands, I relinquish any thoughts of being flowerless. Indeed, I am a home for flora; I am rigid yet I am warm. I stand like a white sentry on the edge of a lustrous, black mantle amid a slew of picture frames. Someone’s dark eyes meet mine: his eyes smolder like burning coals. Faces of others form living arrangements. Pale frowns mock life. Children scurry amid floor lamps and Hunter green furniture, yet laughter is lacking. Embers glow in the fireplace, though I perceive a lasting chill. Someone has placed a chrysanthemum in me, a white lily too, as I, upon my lofty perch, am witness to a wake. It is the time of mourning. Flowers notwithstanding, I squash my pride to a narrow bitterness even as the air grows colder, and grieving lingers. 40 Lines Writer’s Cramp 8-7-16 |