i can't think of titles for my poems anymore

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.