Bloom

I walked past it this morning

and actually saw it.

The drooping head.

The petals papery at the edges,

brown like they were embarrassed.

The seeds visible now,

separating from the center,

letting go.

The water in the vase was cloudy,

greenish,

something growing

that shouldn't be.

I've been walking past this for weeks

without looking,

had let it become background,

had trained my eyes

to skip over anything

no longer beautiful,

anything that's begun to fail.

But this morning I stopped.

Really looked.

Decline isn't dramatic.

It's patient.

It happens while you're not paying attention,

while you're choosing

not to pay attention.

The sunflower was still reaching

toward the window,

still trying,

but its head was too heavy,

its neck too weak,

its petals already deciding

to let go of their brightness.

I should change the water.

I should cut the stem.

I should do something.

I didn't.

Just looked.

Just stood there

acknowledging that I'd been avoiding this—

the particular ugliness

of something past its prime,

something that had tried

and was failing,

something that didn't deserve

to be ignored

but that I'd ignored anyway.

I walked back to the bedroom.

Left it there,

drooping,

reaching,

letting go.