Artificial flowers are tacky.
Real flowers are available
In the nearby grocery store.
They are not expensive…but
Their vague scent disappoints the nose.
They will soon droop from jet lag
For they have flown from Peru or Chile
Mexico, Florida or Israel, refrigerated.
They have been bred to near artificiality
Like the tomatoes and strawberries—
So pretty, so tasteless, so disappointing
To the tongue’s eager taste buds,
Filling the mouth with the texture
And blandness of cardboard.
I no longer buy so-called fresh flowers
And rarely am tempted by visual
Perfection: the round, red beauty
Of flavorless apples, or the hard as rocks,
So tempting, juiceless, unripe peaches.
I have stopped picking wild flowers.
They are living things,
As yet untainted by commerce.
They deserve to die a natural death
In the fields of their birth.
I crave old fashioned fruits and flowers.
I miss them and, yes, I know
My artificial roses and cyclemen
Are truly tacky—
At least they are not molded plastic.
They are real silk.
Well…maybe they are…