"Flowers of Mortals"

Chandler Ryd

A dark night under the sun

with a frigid breath down your neck.

Hot shadows should make you warm,

but warmth is sparing on this life-long trek.

These--

these the flowers of mortals.

You hear a leaf screaming as it falls,

and feel its veiny bones snap beneath a rabbit’s foot.

Distracted by the Devil’s calls,

you may wander and trip on some spindly root that happens to be where your foot is landing

but No! of course it’s not your fault.

These--

these are the flowers of mortals.

What was it like before the sky turned grey?

Were your eyes any different when you looked to the clouds,

the puffy white cotton balls that became

a puppy or the baseball mitt that smells of your father?

Your flower grew up too soon,

And now you have time to wander and drown in the Red Sea,

your Apple rolling from the hilltop city.

The path is long, you tell yourself.

Time enough to die with an empty bed, and a plastic funeral.

These are the deaths of men with no flowers.

You’ve seen the man with a sign splashed on the curb:

the boy crying on foreign shoulders because

his daddy ain’t commin’ back.

The daddy who never sees his son cry anymore because--

they don’t talk about it much anyhow.

Delicate, yet trampled down,

His petals live separate, yet he gave them all to that one girl

whose name perpetually lies on the tip of his tongue.

You see his face but never the tug

that compels him--me--to run and jump and write to live

with the hope--the dream--

that the next bend will not be the end,

and train-wrecks will sprout another flower,

a rose,

that is the life he chose,

the drum he beats and the heart--the hope--that pounds in his chest.

These--

this is the Path where the snow melts and an extravagant, alleluia sunrise

fondles your weary complexion.

these are the flowers of mortals.