There you sit on the windowsill,
the cold glass rubbing against your vase
as you stare through the pane to view
the waning sun.
You recall when the fog could be felt on your petals
the rain kissing your face like dew, the humid air
reaching into you from stem to tip
You recall the rush of growing, giving your petals to passerby
blending between the other flowers, bending to kiss the bee
before yawning at the end of day
and sleeping through the darkness sea.
You were plucked late enough in life
losing the length of roots outside
stuffing into the crannies of this cramped blue vase
and gazing upon the eyes of the one who plucked you.
Here you sit on the windowsill, no longer
sunning, no longer
singing, no longer
swaying in the summer spring.
You want to return to the other flowers
You want to be resown.
You want to wither, watching them,
the flowers you are no longer.
But you have something they don’t have
the strength to carry these long memories
the scope to know that strife
is necessary to each pretty white daisy
to survive through all this life.