Can’t we just let the flowers be I wonder aloud knowing the answer
No (naively, I’ve asked the question before, more than once)
it is their color we need their aliveness although
they are dying even before we get them home
glass vase of filtered water glass half full
half empty. Pretty, I do see your point
Well then since we must: tulips die best of all, long languid stems
they are ballerina they take deep bows at night you choreograph
to rise again magically élevé, demi-plié, relevé it’s days
before one yellow petal finally and then another
slowly drift to the kitchen table sometimes
the flower never opens
Others (roses mums carnations) lurch to death bright
red gold pink go to brown burnt bits of litter of paper reporting
their own obituaries. You’ve learned to sweep the table clean
before I will eat. Still, it’s 15 bucks
to curate a weekly funeral for the most insubstantial of corpses
I will look forward to more from Kenneth White. I enjoyed each of his additions to The Raven’s Perch, but especially Our Mornings Work. The division of morning tasks, the image of the bird beautifully cupped in hands, and then the realization of nature at work… deeply moved me.