Petals

A woman views scenes of the Holocaust from her windowsill with her daisies a last hope.

The woman draped her hand
across the grainy wood of the white windowsill.
She let the petals of her daisies
fall upon her fingertips like
giggling children in a game of tag.
She had not ever felt such soft.
As she rubbed her hands
along the comforting cotton
of her gardening apron
already spotted with dirty memories,
she gazed out upon the street.
Her aged hand rose immediately to her mouth,
the other quickly to the side of the pane
as if to remind herself she wasn’t dreaming.
Watching in a dazed horror
forgetting the softer things,
the woman’s wrinkles sunk deeper
into the crevices of her face.
There was no sound,
instead the encapsulating silence
that she had often said reminded her
of God’s voice,
but now convinced of an eternal moment
in which time had truly stopped.
The tips of her nostrils tickled
as a waft of burning flesh seared the air.
How sad for a flower to grow with such tainted life,
the petals absorbing stolen wishes and dreams
so she could never feel such a soft again.