Orchids wilt in the hot room.
It is summer here, outside, a belligerent winter
with a dying, poorly Moon.
They have thrown themselves from their stakes.
Stakes which were there to provide safety,
protection,
backboned projections.
The orchids, they are careless, for they have
left their safe havens,
their ties have been cut,
severed from the heaven they once
grew towards,
now wilted, lethargic.
What a sorry sight for eyes,
used to falling upon beauty,
now dejection and misery,
once-taut, now lacklustre under the
oppressive heat’s fury,
the split system churns out
Celsius, five and twenty,
degrees of measure too hot
for the orchids,
whom cannot stop wilting.
Their heads, they can barely lift,
too much of a trouble it is to subsist,
rejection of the support
because I cannot, will not,
do not want to entertain that foggy breath
of mist,
morning time offers some solace
when the fiery heater does its trick.
© 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Photo by cottonbro from Pexels
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