A transparent droplet of nectar hangs
from the stigma of the bright yellow Pollyanna
lily, a solitary tear questioning “common knowledge”
about which of God’s creations feel pain, what it means
for plants that sense and respond to stress codes, communicate
through root systems and chemical signaling, to be cut down
before their prime, who it is they miss when they’re resplendently
dying in the clear vase on my kitchen table, what it means
when we both unfurl our velvet petals.
Very nice.
I like how it moves from the general to specific, then personal with “my kitchen table” and “our velvet petals.”
“Dying” is unexpected and effective.
Thanks, Wally
Tks!