SPRING SNOW IN THE FORECAST
In a gesture of saving,
I cut stems of iris, white tulips
tinged with the pink of a new mouth –
fill bowls and rooms with them,
keepsakes of a garden soon decimated.
But there is no safekeeping.
Even absent snow,
every flower fades.
Still, I overturn wrought-iron chairs,
drape pale sheets and beach towels
over spindly, poked-up legs.
Our Eden a junkyard,
I have done what I can.
What is left uncovered must make do.