Apology Blooms

by Ren Koppel Torres

Three stalks of remorse 

crowd the old Jarritos 

bottle. Leaves, once regal, 

hang limp and yellowed 

from their stems: corinthian 

columns grown brittle 

under the weight of a 

history staled by fault.

I maneuver the remainder 

of the flower food from its 

little white packet, watch it

kiss the rim of the glass and 

drip slowly down. The clear 

water clouds, digests a 

second chance. I reach out

to touch the layered petals,

smooth and soft like his hand

entwined with mine. Oh, purple 

sunflowers, drink up and grow 

strong again. May your vibrance 

return to us. Don’t let it end like this.