Musings #56 - 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,

a scrapheap.

There –

I have done what I can.

What is left uncovered must make do.

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