Sadness overwhelms me in this circle of cutflowers; some face me, plead for help, but if
I were to cradle one tulip-heavy head in my palmlike a premature baby, would its petals (that remind
me of my mother's skin when she was old) fallto the floor? Others turn away in a dried blush
of shame. Just a few plump bodies flaunt sheenon velvet cloaks, yet stems stoop weary.
They wait in colour-oblite ... (read more)