Micah Shiva

My favorite part of the day today
in the break room at work, mid Friday
among the light of the February sun
was Micah standing there with the flowers.

He had removed them from the compost bin,
and we placed them back in the glass vase
from which they had been removed and tossed.

They were still very alive, we thought.

Should I bring them home? he pondered aloud.
Am I being ridiculous? he asked.
I’m feeling very weird right now, he said, as he held the flowers by the neck of the vase in one hand, and in his other hand he held his indecision, both elbows cocked like the Shiva Nataraja.
He wore a navy blue sweatshirt with sleeves pushed up,
the word “Cal” in yellow font across his chest.

I was at the sink, but I spun around to see him there in his hilarious predicament.

Daylight crowded the room,
blasting blue-tinted white
through the pigmented petals.

I laughed with glee to see him there—for an instant—
holding the resurrected flowers.

Why hadn’t he let the flowers be, to rest in the compost?
They were too beautiful to throw away, we thought.
They were still very alive, we thought.

We left them on the countertop, held together by the vase,
and then we left the room.

 

—written early February

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