plank road

Now a quiet house and

sunlight a blossoming bouquet through window-blinds

before wilting in perfect squares on the carpet.

Across decaying distance collecting consciousness

in the form of light lifted from the living;

who have lingered and who have left.

Those golden petals rushing uphill from the river,

 a reflection imperceptibly past me.

Its history –silently– of the living

packed into its hot pistil and pressing

warm against the frosted panes

before collapsing

gently onto me.