There’s Nothing Still about Still Life
I was picked on a dewy Monday morning.
I felt the sharp, slicing snip on my fleshy stem- it hurt only a second. I was concentrating more on the yearning to break open the waxy pod that enveloped me, releasing my sensuously perfumed, pink petals. I could feel it about to happen, the explosion, the coming forth.
By Tuesday morning, there I was. In full glory, massive, towering over my throne of rocks, glass and water, I drank thirstily. I am grandeur in flora. worship me.
Wednesday, Queen of the table, notice me, adore the way I perfumed your room. Feel how my silky petals are delightful to your harsh touch. Easy there with those rough awkward fingers, and more water please!
Thursday, I am still strong, vibrant lovely, but there is something amiss here. The edges of my petals and dark green leaves are not quite as pronounced as I want them to be. Nonetheless, I am still the most beautiful thing in this room and I am yours.
Friday, can’t drink and feeling weaker this morning as you run off to work, passing me by so casually. Do you still love me even though my petals are not quite so lovely, now that my perfume has faded and I lean slightly to the left? tell me you do