The tulips bend
with the weight of their
flowers, reaching
towards the sun
at the windows
that straddle the
mantle, onto which
a few petals
have dropped
among a watercolor
of an Amsterdam canal,
a Chinese opera mask,
old editions: the Aeneid,
Wuthering Heights, an Irish Reader.
Fewer others fallen over
to the tiled hearth,
and fewest yet
fallen to the panels
of the wood floors.
These are closest to the sun.
Something more
than petals is missing
when I find them gone,
picked up and thrown away.
John K., 1/7/10, 4:50-56PM
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