Sunday, June 21, 2009


Every Sunday she buys seven white gladioli, arranges them in the tall vase in her bedroom, their long stems immersed in water. Their presence gives the room a kind of clarity, a sense of well-being she draws sustenance from, even though she knows her joy is rootless, that her hope, even as it opens, is beginning to fade.


Anonymous said...

brilliant, poignant imagery.

equivocal said...

"Gladioli, lame gladioli" (Remember "Fame" from The Arkansas Testament?