WINDOWFLOWER

I could
die here
my body
a pod
browning and
curling it's
a contagion
of sun
with little
heat that
weakens
cell walls
and yes
how I do
believe
whole-
heartedly in
half-life
the wooden
box see
me poised
on the failing
pith of
my stem I
choose to
exist only
on a staple
of stale air
seeping
between the
window and
ledge oh
listen to the
syncopation
of sounds
that resonate
there on
the other side
of the glass
the glass
the glass
where I press
my face
perfectly stark
petal white
flush against
the pane
leaning towards
the light.

— sonia greenfield