The Flowers by Sheila E. Murphy

The Flowers

The flowers warmed to the sound of her voice

When she sang in lower case her alto matte finish voice 

Delicate petals half fell against the table

Onto other petals onto the earth

The fresh scent of the flowers the skin

Of the arms folded in response to sound 

In their fragility the tender place far from another place

Where breath not singing filled the room 

A fragrant breath soon gentle fragment of age

Strange to think of flowers that might have seemed

Small statues full of history and imagination my mother’s 

Gentle aspiration to become herself the flowers one color and another

Flower answering a few musical whispers found

Or imagined or retroactive it was the flowers themselves 

I thought of them as brothers I thought subtraction 

I thought of answers to questions I had not asked

I thought the pretty marbles on the ground in small configurations 

With poise of the flowers to revere the flowers

To reflect what you would have the flowers become 

Unto themselves for a while melodious flowers 

Chanced to meet and become the flowers