Over Ripe
A man walks into a room to smell the wallflowers
to find their petals plucked
Perplexed at first, he grimaces then glowers
Some people have all the luck
The sweet yet fetid smell of nearly rotten fruit
in a dank and dark corner
Wafts in the air like muffled notes of a flute
or the whimper of a quiet mourner
I pick up the scent of mint or maybe basil
and scoop up a wilted leaf
It's not yet brown but turning a little hazel
and I hand it to the bereaved
We share an over ripe plum and a pomegranate
with a timid shrinking violet
Such is the ephemeral nature of a dying planet
when we're all deaf and we're all silent
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