FLOWERS
- Jul 10
- 1 min read
By Victoria Jones
It is early and dark,
I can see the moon.
No heat—
only frost and the brittle bite
of wind on cold fingers.
Artificial light grounds us,
holding us—firm— to purpose.
Black lace on black hands,
a respite,
from the uniform and dull.
Your flowers were fresh once,
scent floating green in the air.
Now they are withered,
and crack when touched
—even gently.
They are still beautiful.
We descend again.
Coats on tight against the winter wind.
Pray that I don’t jostle you.
Or meet your eyes with mine.
They aren’t there anyway.
I see a glimpse of Her,
from the corner of my eye.
An auspicious glint
of light from the sky.
I touch the see-through door,
chill freezing my hand,
and step out—
fading in the Sun.