I spread their colors
across the counter—tulips
in hues of lemon, lilac,
plum and persimmon—
then scoop them up,
slake their thirst, let them
chatter to each other.
They tilt their heads, laugh
from their bellies, begin
to open themselves to life.
As they age, they widen
their scope, become more
generous, acquire a graceful
drape. Their edges begin
to darken, turn inward
until, one by one, each
petal loosens its hold,
gives in to gravity,
leaving—strewn
across my counter—
curled flakes of color,
still laughing.

— Melissa Huff

First published in Fall 2021 in Gyroscope Review