Those Plastic Sunflowers



April 2016




The four plastic sunflowers in my bedroom –

The way they swayed in the ceiling fan’s air

Were the functional year-long April for me.


Fallen twigs of meditating winter

And the deadwood sanity of their roughness;

The begging deserts of the patient summer

And the coarseness of their ravaged mirages;

The thin tune of the nostalgic autumn

And the restlessness of their alcoholic breezes

Were never like fresh seasonal fruits to me

For I had the functional year-long April in my bedroom:

Those four plastic sunflowers.


Not for long: my wedding and divorce –

Both in their infancy –

Ended the perpetual April in my room

By demanding those yellow sunflowers

In the package of reparation.


It was four seasons ago and the spring of April

Now seems to be a creepy plastic serpent

Irresistibly insidious in its illusory cruelty

as my new girlfriend from the same city

Talked of bringing new plastic flowers into my room.

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