I will gather the phlox
from along the road.
I will weave myself
a purple and white crown.
I will call myself Spring.
I will call myself Bride.
He will make love
to me in a green bed
of winter wheat.
He will bury his head
in my hair and sleep.
I will listen to cicadas,
their mournful chorus
a bow across cello strings.
Soon, he will forget me.
like early morning dreams.
He will check his skin
for ticks, will gather
his clothes and leave.
Petals will untangle
from my knotted hair.
I am a weeping widow.
The phlox will rebloom
and they will remember
my cruel, thin fingers
as I cut blossoms from stems.
My reign of May Queen will end.
