Fake

My mother calls to tell me how nice 
her flowers look in their window pots  
warm with summer sun. 

Her voice light and high--

she’s practically singing-- 
as if the sun shines on her alone.

That brave soul! Badly wounded 
but never down for long. 

Those flowers are fake!

But she loves them more for this 

very reason.
They will outlive the living blooms

that leave her to sweep up their decay 
and make her start anew. 

Much better fake! 
Durable, practical, just as lovely--
but nothing fragile flows through 
their polymer stems.

Time does not spoil their skins, 

their thorns never cut, 

she can hold in her hand a world 
without end.