Watching flowers die

Water won’t save them. They’re in a strange space, a weird place. Cut from their source of nourishment, stems draw sustenance from the fluid they’re standing in, for now. That will dry up or stop supplying what they need. They’ll dry, droop, drop, fade. Biodegradable. Petal dust.


My grandmother used to call sunflowers stickybeaks. She remembered them as always peering over grey paling fences, their heads as if looking, interested even, in what a human was doing.

Stems sprouting ever high, flower heads so heavy they look like shower heads, full to bursting, any time now. The heady scent of lillies, golden polen staining surfaces, fingers and clothes, rich.