by Keanna Irving

Flowers grow in cracks,

in fields, in gardens.

We tend and we kill,

fostering beauty,

plucking roots from soil.

Fleeting, Withering.

To be less careless,

make the beauty last.

A careless driver

foot on the pedal,

metal met metal

met flesh met heaven.

His stranger, my friend,

dead in an instant.

Purple bouquet for

makeshift funeral

endless miles away

hung and pressed to last.

Yellow petals from

a simple, cold day,

made beautiful by

this loving gesture,

but the memory

turned bittersweet and

distant from careless

words and numbed heart-ache.

Just flowers survive,

hung and pressed to last.

A stranger’s wedding

over, I pass by

exquisite bouquets

peeking from the trash.

Beauty tossed careless,

many thanks to the

wealthy newlyweds.

My ordinary night


hung and pressed to last.

I won’t toss away

this fleeting beauty

as a reminder

to be less careless,

and never forget

feelings and seasons—

My dried pressed petals.

Thumbnail image by Sabrina Sanchez.