The Frost Killed All the Zinnias

The frost killed all the zinnias and I couldn't bear to mention it to the ones I had brought inside a few days ago, still vibrant save for a few brittle-edged petals. 

Even this morning they were still hopeful, fushia heads barely peeking over the windowsill
All they saw was sun
All they felt was warmth
If they had looked down they would have delighted in the sparkle only to realize a few moments later that it meant death.

"We go through this every fall,"  I tell them.

"I go through this every fall," I tell myself.

By the evening they had surrendered, limp in vase, yearning for their fallen sisters.

I'll save their seeds.