The lilies wait in full bloom,
held in place by a vase.
Their heads yearn for the sky, hoping
a bee or fly will choose to drop by.
They stare through the grille,
reaching for the world without,
Until of course, the petals dry out.
There’s something sinister,
‘bout trimming a plant’s nether.
Keeping it indoors,
a perverse pleasure.
It will wither without
any fruit or seed.
And we will still keep doing so,
quite on repeat.