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.