Simple hyacinths assembled in a bowl
exude sickly breath of Altschmerz and sorrow.
In the cleft lattice of a flower head, a liquid pearl
trickles down the insidiousness of a fading petal curl,
a reminder that mortals become weak and spent,
and what firmness and agility once meant
to a young boy who let two gods compete
for his love and attention, and cheat
him out of life with a blow to the head.
That’s why hyacinths are pale not red.
Kim M. Russell, 2017
My response to Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Wordle #149