for Simon Perchik

For Si

No one noticed the red petals, slipped off the table, onto the wooden floor, the vase still attractive, bold flowers with strong stems. It was sometime in the evening, before the light fell. Rustling, shaking in the woodpile outside. Investigating. No one, nothing. A jet passing, a distant storm. No vapor trail, no thunder. Walking around the cabin. Summer evening, warm, still. It’s been days and the petals have lost none of their color. Brilliant red. The vase disappeared, flowers tossed on the compost. Unconscious cleaning up after. But the petals persisted. No one noticed they had slipped onto the wooden floor. Passing by, scattering, moving aside. Perhaps it was late in the evening, when the light was dim and the wind had died down. Something in the night sky more compelling. But the slightest movement, somewhere, sometime, and the petals slipped to the wooden floor, leaving the vase and the bright, strong stems.

June 2022

Andrea Moorhead

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