Following up 
the flippancy of flowers
I recall why metaphors are rare
In our neck of the woods.
There are no smilies - implied or crucified - 
for death
Nothing like or as, except perhaps
An emptiness that remains
Empty of content, direction, frivolity.
In the turning of the leaves
We have a half-metaphor for a half-life
Spent well or spent badly but mainly
Just spent. It is a form of déjà vu
When we recall that meeting with ourselves
And know ourselves for the first time.