Death Song of the Amaryllis

I never saw anything expire so beautifully. My glorious pink and white lily look alike flower was dying. Oh, the greenery was firm and bright, exuding life and health. But the delicate four flowers crowning the top of the thick center stalk were drooping, wilting, nay - pining away like some young maiden awaiting the return of her promised beloved who never survived the first battle of some pointless war.





At first it was almost imperceptible, the slight downward turn of the floral faces. No shriveling up and turning brown for these fair ladies. They merely turned parchment thin and transparent, mirror images of what once had been youth and strength. Now, like elderly ladies wearing a bit too much rouge to cover up thinning hairlines and wrinkled brows, they sank further and further downward until their gaze met the brown earth below, until they, stooped and hunchbacked, an ancient shadow of their former splendor, struggled to retain enough grace and spine to clutch for every last scrap of life.





I expect any day now I will find they have finally let go their grip on life and fluttered helplessly to the floor where their tired bodies will be swept away like so much clutter. I will be free to cut the stalk from its place and encourage the green leaves to grow strong and vigorous, feeding the hefty bulb, storing up the necessary nutrients so that next year the new generation of beautiful ladies might reign in their turn. I empathize with their stubborn and persistent fight to wrestle as much life as can be wrested from where you are hung. It is an honorable endeavor.