The flowers are gone – just crimson drops
slowly evaporating on the tablecloth.
Leaves’ open palms
spiral the thick stems of kelly green,
each new set smaller
as stingy winter sun withholds.
Longing after brashness,
I let them linger on the sill.
Their spice still wafts summer
but I have to be very close.
This faint votive is worth ten scented candles.
Can anyone say why flowers
drag our hearts out of our chests?
Now the stalks are skeletons,
mere scaffolding on which
next summer may pulse.
