The singing lotus flowers no longer harmonize well, their aggressively lurching rendition of “Happy Birthday” more fitting now for a passel of piccolos. The instructions promise that “cut the wire” will make the flowers fall still. But birthdays are happy occasions and no one feels up to murder.

Today, another birthday. Now just three lotus flowers are singing.

This time, they sing for my father, his third birthday, in the place beyond complaint.

second thoughts—
the dying grass trembles
in the wind

Bio: Peter Jastermsky