the old man sat staring out of the window
at the flower, wishing it were
and stifled a sneeze as a small cloud of dust
wafted under his nostrils from the stagnant
he wondered why the hell it had to grow so tall
and free, when he himself could not-
when had his own world frosted over and
grown dank and frigid-
he’d grown old one day,
where had the years gone?
when did the wrinkles appear like earthen fissures,
mapping his face like a geological survey,
latitudinal and longitudinal struggles written
plainly in his expressions-
when did the ashen gray turn to arctic white,
pale as a January dawn-
hands worn down by friction, and spotted like
some wild animal,
a beast as rabid and fierce as his rage,
starved and bitter and hungry-
a fury flamed by the easy loveliness of that
what a contrast-
he resented its carefree stature,
and its elegant grace-
he couldn’t help but think that beauty
was a sight meant for others,
never him-
if only he were a bee, able to extract just a tiny
drip of that joy-
would that make a difference?*


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