First flower, or nearly.
No one forces it to do anything.
This is the backdrop.
And a little Bishop. She might know…
Then came a day that was all noon,
a wind that wouldn’t quit.
Cheerful and relentless, mindless,
it took down what it would.
Same time, he wants my beauty again.
Am I decorative only, then?
Vivid despair. The power is out.
Next morning: more of the same:
sun blind, I pick my way,
bright as bright can be.
NEXT AND NEXT AND THEN
A story catches everyone’s attention,
or a story trails off,
or the garden wintered, ready or not that year.
I’ve felt hopeless; I’ve needed that.
Among the oaks, the white is a storybook.
… And all night, the dolls sleep in their beds
and dream what we say
in the houses we built for them…
—Or so we tell ourselves, up too late again,
God knows why,
or stirring, unhappy, too early.