The kitchen lights are soft against the floral wallpaper
that hangs on every wall. The flowers, twining
from baseboard to window and window to ceiling,
play games in the twilight.

Some think it’s too much—
the flowers whirling to and fro with such vitality
that one could assume their smirking;
if flowers could smirk.

I find it comforting, watching
the flowers dance around, imagining
their smirking faces as the music turns faster and faster—
all the while waiting for the tea to steep.