An oriental lily
wafts sweet scent
through thin air.
her spicy perfume
the white haze
of my grief.
White, the color
of death –
a dying flower
her edges shrivel.
Only an emerald
stains the luminous
pearl moon flower
that once was.
I was given a bouquet of these most beautiful flowers a couple of days ago.
That same morning I dreamed that hope was dead.
The Fire moon was full this morning.
I am in mourning – for I must let go of a vision I held, perhaps, too close to my heart.
Grief has no boundaries, it swallows one whole.
I have disappeared down a rabbit hole
in the void of dark space.
The male parts of a flower are called stamens and they usually surround the female pistil that contains an ovary at its base. The pollen from the stamens is carried by the wind and sticks to the sticky top of the pistil fertilizing the flower as it’s dying.
It interests me that the female parts of the flower dies last.