Those Plastic Sunflowers
The four plastic sunflowers in my bedroom –
The way they swayed in the ceiling fan’s air
Were the functional year-long April for me.
Fallen twigs of meditating winter
And the deadwood sanity of their roughness;
The begging deserts of the patient summer
And the coarseness of their ravaged mirages;
The thin tune of the nostalgic autumn
And the restlessness of their alcoholic breezes
Were never like fresh seasonal fruits to me
For I had the functional year-long April in my bedroom:
Those four plastic sunflowers.
Not for long: my wedding and divorce –
Both in their infancy –
Ended the perpetual April in my room
By demanding those yellow sunflowers
In the package of reparation.
It was four seasons ago and the spring of April
Now seems to be a creepy plastic serpent
Irresistibly insidious in its illusory cruelty
as my new girlfriend from the same city
Talked of bringing new plastic flowers into my room.