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It's not a flower-
just a clump of garbage,
snared upon the stalk,
he says.
I show him the stem
from which it grows.

Straw cup
falls in blonde
thin leaf rays,
thick flared skirt,
arched vertical lines
with brown and straw mache
fabric between.

The bloom so heavy,
the stem bowed
face passes from the sun
studies stalk,
littered creekside ground.

Lifting,
I see beneath
layers of green leaf bits-
dead ones
in coffee brown-
some so far gone,
they're just pallid
lacy outlines
the color of lightly
tinted bone,
like small, decomposing
wings.

He says it looks
like a half eaten bug.

I have never seen a flower,
so bizzare,
so uninviting,
but it is to fascinating
to fail the eye.

A detritis bloom,
a hollow, fallen
flower,
who scavenges on the shore,
stuffing random bits of life
into its empty center,
until the weight of being full,
reminds it
of the potential fall
to ground.