Reflection of a flower

by Sonia Tam



a single cut flower rests on a cold metal dish

atop its wavering, wandering reflection: 

its petals, flesh-pink,


fold softly like the lip of the cup beside it,

leaning for the light, dried stem yearning 

for water just beyond its reach.


in the summer, those pink petals

might have opened wide, wider 

until a round orange fruit


burst forth, grasping at the sunlight –

if you could hold that fruit in your hand,

feel the gentle craters in its skin,


its soft flesh waiting underneath,

the warmth, yes, the sun in your hand,

would you take a bite? would you


taste its sweet juices inside, lick

them from your fingers, taste

the fruit as it was meant 


to be tasted? or maybe it doesn’t

matter, maybe it’s just a flower after all,

and maybe it would have been –


as it will be – nothing more 

than a moment of light pink petals 

sitting, waiting, reaching


until they inevitably brown, break,

and fade into dust.


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