Neck Snap

The yellow is gone, replaced by a bruised kind of tan,

and the head is too heavy for the stalk to hold up.

It’s bowed to the dirt like a tired, old man

who drank all the wine from a lead-heavy cup.

The wind caught the fence with a wooden, dry knock

when the flower swung wide in the October chill.

It’s a pendulum now, a dead sort of clock

counting the minutes that are perfectly still.

The back of the head is a grey, seedy plate,

where the birds come to pick at the remains of the sun.

It’s a long way to fall from a height that was great,

now that the season of blooming is finally done.