As an under grad, while writing papers on Proust
she used to
drop ripe
roses
from her
third story
apartment window
to homeless men
who claimed the sanctuary
of sidewalks
for temporary lodging--
They would
pick up
the fallen flowers
and raise the scented
petals to their noses,
inhale
perfume--
not look up
or muse for a moment
how a flawlessly shaped rose
suddenly
descended
to their feet.
Now she feels
guilty for gardens
she could
never quite nurture--
the soil fell fallow--
--and she closed
her third story
window--
While the homeless men haven't changed,
they would breathe in
the odor
of priceless petals
if someone threw
flowers at their feet,
and they knew they were not
alone--
Copyright © 1998 Kenneth Tanemura
Return to Valley of Saying home page.