No such thing as Dead Flowers
February saw an abundance of flowers on my study table. I write this as February makes its foreseeable pass and tiptoes into March. I write this as a shameless poet, yearning for a short lived three-course meal over three weeks and not four. I write this yearning for a warmth that early spring could offer in hot chocolate mugs and knitted vests, in February, but not the kind in March, that comes in rising degrees and skewed golden rays every morning. I write this as my study table glances over at the concrete wall on the house next door while an abundance of brown petals remain scattered across. No space for a book, or a paper, no pen, no laptop. Only perhaps a clay mushroom and a clay toad, resting in their brown garden. If I could call this home, they could call it too. February was short, a much needed short after a January that seemed like a year. On 2nd, I bought flowers. Jasmine, rose, tuberose, marigold, hibiscus, petunia, baby's breath... Memory fails me, colou...
