Vases of flowers
counter-top my senses
Seeing the glass, painted
with fresco gardens
the crunchiness
of dead flowers,
The petals of which
have fallen;
of which
I have picked up one
To sense the 'wait'
somehow
in my present
without words or symbols
that
‘I can do it, picking
Head in the clouds,
confabulating without deception
my emotional processing
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