Now a quiet house and
sunlight a blossoming bouquet through window-blinds
before wilting in perfect squares on the carpet.
Across decaying distance collecting consciousness
in the form of light lifted from the living;
who have lingered and who have left.
Those golden petals rushing uphill from the river,
a reflection imperceptibly past me.
Its history –silently– of the living
packed into its hot pistil and pressing
warm against the frosted panes
gently onto me.