Vase of Dahlias, 1883, Claude Monet
I cut dahlias to fill the vase
so that they would greet you today
when you returned from the doctor’s office –
but you didn’t notice them until now.
You said they looked sad and wilted.
The couple at the table beside us
are, no doubt, on a first date.
He’s talking about travel plans – a beach –
she’s quite casually looking at her watch.
More coffee? No, thank you. I’m good.
It’s scents that linger in the air,
or a trail left in the water.
An impression left in space after something
or someone has been there and leaves –
the trace of her. Perfume. Heat. Light.
Across the café, she pauses her writing.
Perhaps she saw or felt me staring.
Is that a notebook, workbook, or journal?
I want it to be her poetry.
The only heat here comes from coffee.
The leader says this pose looks easy,
but relaxing is very difficult for many.
Savasana, lying like a corpse, but conscious.
No more struggling, awareness, tension subsiding slowly –
my mind wandering onto a dark path.