WILT

Dead flowers, picked,

wilt and droop,

and he wonders why.

Beauty glows and grows

in its own place,

left alone.

But pulled, cut, hauled

out from its own

section of the world

like a mountain goat

in a city, or a fish

with no water

it can’t survive.

It fades, and fails,

and hangs its soft head.

And soon, all he holds,

are the dead stems

of what was.

©Roisin Duffy

TITLE: WILT

ORIGINAL SOLD

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