Amidst A Tangle of Final Baby Breath

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The flowers

Which we cradled in a pale, 

life-chipped ceramic vase,

Like a vibrant, rosy-cheeked baby from 

The fields of Arles

Can only love us

For so long 

Before they begin to curtsy and bend

Like a ballerina

On withered stems

Who will then

float away

at the speed of 

suddenly lost love.


And yet it was only a few days ago

When we carried them home in our arms

Trimmed and arranged them

Like soft-hearted teachers placing children in size order

And carried them on the reverence of tip-toes

to their place of honor,

On the notched pine bed of a  coffee table

Where we stared at them every morning

And every night like

Hypnotized parents 

And did everything we could

to keep them happy and alive.


And yet

While we were otherwise engaged

Watching The Crown

Or playing Sudoku

There was 

A sudden decline

An unannounced droop

A Garboesque collapse as

cells surrendered 

and the bouquet passed away quietly

Amidst a tangle of final baby breath


This is why

 I suppose 

that artists memorialize our fallen flowers

And why photographers capture them

And writers eulogize about them.


To remind us that

every cherished visit

is as brief as a breath

That to welcome the temporary limpidity of beauty

And the transmission of color

is to be loved unconditionally 

That there are indelible lessons in the magic

Of fidelity

And most importantly, that the pain of loss can be stilled by 

by the legacy that you have inherited

The epilogue of a life

that will continue to guide and inspire you

long after they have said goodbye.

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