Each Flower Is a Song of the Past Meeting the Present

Prose Poetry

Image by Công Đức Nguyễn from Pixabay

You sing the light of another morning’s ebb — how the sun passes over the sky in a lazy dance, how the moon hides her face against the sorrow of the afternoon.

It is too soon to say what winter will bring — we think ourselves powerful against its frigid might — but the flowers will return as they always do. Hoping for more may just be the arrogance of our brothers and sisters.

I thought the petals were like you — how effortlessly perfect in all the right ways — but you hid your deepest scars behind the veil of beauty in motion, your face turned upward to the waiting sunlight that made you cast a long shadow.

Beautiful — it’s a word we use often, but what does it convey? Is it you when you are flawlessly individual, or can your pain too become something that makes another person catch his breath, in awe of something exquisite like sadness on a lovely face?

The flowers sing their songs in silence — or perhaps a language only known to the sun and his mistresses — but I watch you sitting there and wonder just how you can be a dream and a promise all wrapped into one.

Heartbreak, perhaps inevitable, courts me now — for your hand is held out to someone else, another passing shadow, another face that will make…