june poem

absolutely

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.