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.