I encountered a riddle of my making:

The glass bowl filled with milk-dimmed water

From the soft sap of cut lilies

Stems plunged and quieted

Slowly bleeding white,

Rings of sun

Echoing the wood around the bowl

Shivering light.

It struck me suddenly

Brush poised midair,

This slow bright death

These lilies, their fragrance like carrion

Decay resting languidly along the bowl’s rim.

One dusty yellow eye

Staring blankly as I paint the vulval folds like canyons

Their stamen lolling, their petals stiffening fruit peel.

I am making them immortal,

These soon dead things,

Making them more than they are.

This giver of life, these hands,

These destroyers.