She now matches the orange
burst of the small blooms perched near
the bowl.

Her body is a paler shade; it seems all the bolder tones
have leaked outward to the red flitting fins
They must be strong, those
billowing liquid-silk paddles, to hold the weight of
morning joys
mid-day chaos
evening fatigue
and worries that creep up after sunset.

Not all is spoken aloud,
but still,
she must feel the vibrations of all the messages sent
to her through the water
enclosed by the glass alongside
the orange flower.