Dying Flowers

You bring me flowers…

A dozen red roses dying

I am their hospice now...

As they sit in a vase of water for me to watch their final dying days

What am I to make of this?

The queer beauty of dying flowers on my countertop

Their beauty fading even as we speak; are they really dying? Or are they dead already?

their colorful bodies slowly wilting away

Like a wet and muddy dog who brings me the dead squirrel

I cannot be mad at you for showing me your love in this way

Any more than the priest can be angered by the sins he absolves

An so I accept your gift of dying flowers

And I pretend I do not see the wilting pedals

I accept their care as the final admirer of their dying days

As I have accepted the kisses of my lover, secretly moving on...