Thursday, June 7, 2012

june poem


The garden roses peak in quick
succession, each a different shade
of circus orange or absolutely
pink. And as one begins to bow,
I am left counting the green
buds left on the bush.

How long does anything last?
Always I have been grateful
for seasons change: the muted
shades of autumn after summer’s
fluorescence. Winter’s quiet
fields of swans and spring’s
quick revival of song—

but darling, already the rain
has mashed the peony’s
layered petals into a brown mitt
and the roses are parading
into summer. Over here,
I blush for you, again and again: 
it is this I am trying to hold on to.

1 comment: