Rose Shadow

On my dresser, there is a blue vase which contains a single, silk rose. The flower never withers. The thing itslelf is quite realistic looking, with the spiraling motion of a bud just about to open fully for the first time. The leaves however are less than convincing, having only been given a rippling texture on one side. On the other is smooth green plastic, as flat as a disposable party table cloth. Below the vase is a lamp, which casts a shadow upward along the wall. The shadow's stem reaches the corner of the cieling exactly at the flower, with a crooked, decapitating, angle giving the flower the look of a hanged man. Strange Fruit.

In my kitchen is another vase (early Gerke) which contains eight real roses, given to me by a sweetheart. For now they are plush, open, and fragrent. In a few days they will wither and die, like all cut flowers. As the light strikes them in the days to come, what shadow will they cast? And on what walls? As I watch the constant resistance of the silk flower, I am struck by the thought that the real ones always loose thier battle against the light. The light that feeds them, and gives them their shadow. The lustor that is meant to be preserved in silk, is somehow diminished by its own permanency. It is the vulnerability of the real flowers that make them so dear. And when they are gone, they will smell all the more sweet.