By Thomas Page

Right before me there is a vase made of

Glass imbued with unpotable water

Criss-crossed with stems of varying widths which

Are floating in a pseudo-creche, a yurt

Acting as a spyglass to the other side.

The flowers are every shade save blue

Which blushes purple from red painted

Flowers flanking the opposite spectrum

Remarked by yellows and oranges—giallo

As it is arancia resting on

Verdant backgrounds with holes like rustic tow’rs

Populating the drills of careful hands

Mimicking the majesty of places

Needing no name except one—Nature.

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