Flowers

Poem

Flowers

Like a dying stream,

the notes and coins

she stores in a jar

deplete as in a drought.

 

Each day she washes

in the yard,

shuffles to the stall,

buys her bread and olives.

 

Once each week

she buys some flowers.

Glorious bunches.

Sun filled reds and yellows.

 

People nod and smile,

say how they and she look fine,

how they enjoy

her window sill display.

 

This week

the jar has emptied.

Tomorrow, perhaps,

no bread or olives.

 

But worse,

next week,

no flowers. 

Michael R Chapman
~ master of none ~