Balanced on the oatmeal and toilet paper
they reign supreme
on the practical parade towards payment.
The startling miracles of blue, violet
and purple marry only once a year.
Each glance brings a silent gasp in me,
a split second later, another explosion of joy.
So brash and bold, their long stalks strain
to keep the luscious blossoms in place,
straight and safe,
for a time.
Finally, they come to the end of the line.
After an hour of organic chickens and gallons of milk,
the cashier draws a delighted breath.
She holds the bouquet aloft to check the price.
I gasp again.
“They are amazing,” she announces.
“Who are you giving them to?”
“Me,” I say with a hint of conceit.
She hands them to me like she’s transferring valuables.
We await the ribbon of my purchases to emerge.
“It’s too bad. You know, they won’t last long.”
I hold them to my heart,
“I know,” I assure her.
“It’s why I love them so.”