Faded Poem by Danielle Nguyen

Small desert flowers like
small, soft hands,
nestled in a pool of sand,
helpless under the indifferent sun,
reached their curved lips to an empty sky,
never knowing what it means to wilt.

For a brief moment,
the universe was still.
Their tiny red veins beneath
silk flesh
were undisturbed
and every grain of sand was quiet,
hushed and solid,
a soft pile under a soft blue vastness.

When I held a single cup in my palm,
it occurred to me how gently
the thin petals shivered.
I could so plainly feel their
cool moisture evaporating,
sinking into the leather skin of my
rough, clumsy palms.
The sun was high, and
I could not protect them from its
stinging rays. No shift of
my fingers, no amount of cradling,
no quiet pleading would stop
the frail gasp of their surrender to my
unwitting hands.

When I finally let go,
all that fluttered down were
crippled remains
of something so purely,
so vulnerably beautiful.

I stood over what was now mine:
scattered, parched petals,
like dry victims of
my own foolishness.