In spring, the kerria ate the rose,
and bush-tits gathered upside down
and right side up. But I barely noticed
the gray bodies against all that yellow.
Summer has ripened and you are gone.
It is warm in the apartment
and the forgotten rose has bloomed,
is wafting through the open door.
I don’t know if it is the thought
of you, or the height of the blushing
flower, but my skin is burning,
says I want you here.
Maybe that's why I keep looking
out the window to catch the lone
yellow warbler in the kerria,
which has surrendered color. Which
ate the rose and gave it up again.