From a table, the day wilts
beneath a freshly pulled chair,
its roots left behind pale presented.
Another spent flower to pick up,
their once beautiful uprights
show now unnaturally askew;
a sense of lost composure
cannot arrange into anything
worth straightening up, not instantly,
but give it time.
An offer of water is turned away
to look outside at the cold return,
and dwell, to be concerned by
a lack of blooms
and the inability to recover still life.
Surprising it seems
to transfer these stems to the sink,
with reminders that yesterday
everything sat well enough,
when winter covered less than a chair,
and spring sat briefly,
chatted sunshine matters. It does.