The Book Life

4.13

Poem Starting with a Line from Norman Dubie

My favorite pastime has become
the imaginary destruction of flowers.
I look at them, think wilt,
see the color fade, leaves droop, stems bend.
I like to assign my mind
such power.
More than imaginary,
I neglect to water the flowers in my apartment,
keep them away from the windows
to see them whither. I count the days
it takes to die. It is spring and everything
is blooming.
It feels excessive.
I have no more explanation
than that.

When the flowers are fully dead,
I throw them in the damp morning grass.

[PROMPT: Start with a line from a poem by Norman Dubie.]