The Florist Throws Away Her Flowers
in their refrigerated cases
breathe against the glass, turning to slime.
Ok, maybe not slimy yet,
but ready to let their beauty go to gook
ever since, well,
ever since they got here.
In a cut flower’s life
every hour is a year,
a lifetime in seven days.
Bunch of baby’s breath can’t be
reattached to the plant,
inhaled back into plant,
returning to its days as a seed
in the sweet soil.
Flowers are the gift
that keeps on
but first makes room for a little visit.