Cut Flowers

by Mark Belair

In a brownstone window I’m
passing, a woman regards

a spray of cut flowers
in a glass vase on the sill.

She plucks some petals, then, upon
reflection, takes the vase away.

I pause and wait.

And she returns
with fresh water in the vase—

it’s more clear
and high—

then plumps
the remaining petals

until, assured,
she leaves.

But I don’t.

I remain there, riveted
and inspirited,

because breathing in—
despite the closed window—

the flower-scented trail
of daily, ordinary, casually

sacramental
care.