A bundle of flora in efflorescence,
Zestful yet lonesome evermore,
Home is a pearly eggshell vase.
A sanity knots its evil gazing eye,
Wonderstruck, what is their melody?
Their conviction for such a pin straight stance.
Are they a token of a thank you,
From a graceless boy to a lovesick girl,
The vase lay shattered.
The silhouette of the vase accompanied by breathless perished amber tulips,
Mirroring the flaking beige paint of the bleak windowsill,
Hoarding dust, beaten and godforsaken.
Periodically, it’s the sapphire sea hollies from the back garden,
Plucked by dainty hands with nail beds destroyed by dirt,
Who artfully organized a cluster of thin stems,
Just to lay in a leftover crystal vase on a kitchen counter.
An act of intimacy,
Among two lovers,
One with the shining vase full of their wedding bouquet,
Forevermore as one.
On the bland timber tabletop,
A glass vase bloats with dawn.
Keeping a flower held captive in a vase,
You feel grand. It is possessing.
Yet you are a slave to its hunger for rainwater,
For a vase of pretty flowers is all it is,
A nameless gift for the glorification of grief,
For you feel nothing, so you offer a vase of weeping wisteria,
their manifestation of dolefulness pitching serenity as they sit silent,
In a fireclay vase.
At the glimpse of a milky white vase of flowers,
Stationary towards the radiance of the glimmering moon,
Their fragrance earthy and lush, you wish to be cleansed by the soft petals,
Birthed a new aura of lilac and lavender,
A flower child.
The copper faucet is running,
The vase of flowers must be blossoming.
A peace offering or a dove of harmony in the form of a vase of flowers,
A vase you will stow away in the back of the cupboard for special occasions,
Perhaps for when all you can offer is a simple bundle of flowers.
Maybe the vase of flowers was for nothing,
Given to forge a slight smile,
Since sometimes the simple existence of something so natural, so fragile,
Anchors us to mother nature and her precious gifts.