A canvas stretches beneath the colours of camellias

and rain. A child has left. The heads are petals 
tucked crimson around gold—the stamens, pollen-

thick. A parent lives. Dropped from the stem
they fall intact. A spouse is sutured and well.

Each is a basket held, by those grey brackets 
that hid the bud. My plans are undone. Detached

the heads rest on concrete not far from a scatter 
of gumnuts and my exhalation of regret. I have

wearied of care. A wattlebird will make its home.