Subscribing to Zyzzva
I hate to throw flowers away.
The broken neck of the ranunculus
blooms at their fullest,
all the leaves yellowed
Hovering near death
does not make them ugly,
just a different stage of petty.
A middle-age view, no doubt,
I have every reason to adopt it.
It feels neglectful to leave them
in the living room and pains me
to toss them in the compost heap.
I too feel yellowed and spent,
my spirit snapped at the neck –
trying to finish the same old work,
years turn into decades.
I lie awake at night
that now I have nothing to say.
I spend the day reading instead,
articles and poems.
I make a few files,
subscribe to a mag,
but only the last
of the ranunculus
brings me back