becoming

Silently, I cut the wilted bloom and watch it fall into my open hand.

It is dead. I cringe at the lifeless body heavy in my palm. I am disturbed by its twisted and distorted form, its wrinkled and creviced texture.

The radiant orange flare of yesterday's blossom is now a faded brown memory.

My eyes wander earnestly, despairingly, over the fruitless stems.

I am searching for the becoming.