2016 Day 11 – Pressed

One amongst many, this flower.
Nothing flamboyant about it.
The stem
Is barely half a finger length,
Fine as embroidery silk,
Green shading to almost brown.
Under a magnifying glass
The leaves, a brighter green, reveal
Gossamer-fine veins
And at their heart
White petals,
Achingly delicate,
Tremble at a breath.
No perfume, but a hint of chlorophyll
Teases the nostrils.

Touching, we bruise. Possessing, we destroy.

 

Notes: Today’s prompt was to “write a poem in which you closely describe an object or place, and then end with a much more abstract line that doesn’t seemingly have anything to do with that object or place, but which, of course, really does.” I’m not sure I’ve quite managed this.

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