-------------------------------------------Mood: The Usual
i notice her flowers, how they rot in a blue ball jar. not an old ball jar, mind you, but a remake, the kind that comes in a pack of four for less than a tenner at the local everything-is-made-in-china-store. anyway, the line - she never does give them proper burials - it comes to me and sticks; a mental note. a future something or other to work on. add to. or not.
and her flowers, they rot. they always rot. they will stay there in murky, smelly, stem rotting water until someone else throws them away.
i realize it's about importance; what takes precedance. i suppose for her a proper burial isn't even a thought. she doesn't see them. dead. alive. picked. bought. sent. cut. i wonder if she has ever truly enjoyed the precious scent of a purple petunia that smells like colorado.
i watch the early morning mist rise up from the river; enough to see a random fish jump or leaf float by like it's the beginning of fall. i go back to the flowers, or what were once flowers; a small bouquet; an arrangement made; a gathering of: black-eyed susans, russian sage, honeysuckle and lavender; paired with: bee balm, gerber daises, snap dragons and spearmint. the only thing left alive now are the ribbons necktied around the jar. how they unfurl with the sun; become polka-dotted burlap fronds and something to consider.
...Created 2017-09-09 05:42:22 [ View Past Journals ] [ View as Blog ]