I watched. The stem, usually limp and docile, stood rigid as rebar. The flower seemed to lean out of the window, tilting toward the gray smog.
“It doesn’t float,” she told me, pointing to the flower. “It refuses the bowl of water.” crimson lotus soaring
As the sun sets behind the highlands, the flower settles back into the vase. The woman closes the window. For a moment, the room is just a room again. I watched
Because the soaring was never the destination. The soaring was the proof of life. I watched. The stem