flowers

• A print of flowers, blue irises, watercolour. Flowers are still allowed.
• The daffodils are now fading and the tulips are opening their cups, spilling out colour
• The tulips are red, a darker crimson towards the stem, as of they have been cut and are beginning to heal there
• Many of the wives have such gardens, its something for them to order and maintain are care for
• The plump shapes of bulbs held in the hands, fullness, the dry rustle of seeds
• no longer winecups but chalices; thrusting themselves up, to what end? … When they are old they turn themselves inside out, then explode slowly, the petals thrown out like shards
• The stains on the mattress. Like dried flower petals. Not recent. Old love; there’s no other kind of love in this room now
• Even at her age she feels the urge to wreathe herself in flowers…you can’t use them anymore, you’re withered. They’re the genital organs of plants
• so female in shape it was a surprise they’d not long since been rooted out
• Goddesses are possible now
• I have no rose  to toss, he has no lute. But it’s the same kind of hunger
• I’ve tried to put some of the good things in as well. Flowers