The Heavy Head

The petals are curled like shavings of wood,

dark yellow and brittle on the countertop tile.

I should have thrown them out when I could,

but I liked the way they hung there for a while.

The head is so heavy it’s bowed to the mail,

dropping dry seeds on the water bill and the junk.

It’s a tall, ragged soldier beginning to fail,

with a stem that has finally shriveled and shrunk.

There’s something about the way things go bad

that feels more honest than when they are bright.

It’s not exactly beautiful, and it’s not exactly sad,

just a plant getting ready to turn out the light.