The sunflowers my mother bought
wept over the kitchen floor
wept over the kitchen floor
this morning, their scent overpowering -
wet carpets, mothballs.
Or something older, an odour
too close to human, for comfort.
A flower seems such a harmless thing,
stuck in a painted vase,
petals shaking off at the lightest touch,
or no touch at all.
And yet, I am driven far away,
wanting nothing more of their glorious black,
the gold I sought - only days ago,
when my mother brought them home.
(c) Shaista Tayabali, 2023
Paintings: Vincent Van Gogh (1853-1890)
OLN night at DVerse Poets
