Suntali asks, why do rose petals have
such a precarious hold on the bloom?
I say, it is simpler to love the things
of this world when we nurture a loose grip.
Look, today the juniper titmice fledged
and quietly the Sun begins turning south.
She points to the one-day halo of blooms
sprung by the potted Mammillaria,
petals shining pink, bright yellow anthers
screaming to be touched by a bee or wind,
that during the night will become a clique
of gray, withered stalks. She says, but they die
too soon. And I think, too, of the blessed
joy watching a child’s innocence grow.
Michael G. Smith is a semi-retired chemist whose poetry has been published in many literary journals and anthologies. Recently he has been writing sonnets about his relationship with his adopted Nepali niece, Suntali, whom he helped fetch from Kathmandu with her mother, Patricia. His book No Small Things (Tres Chicas Books) was published in 2014. Visit his sites at http://michaelgsmithpoetry.com/ and