Heirlooms planted 
more than forty years ago 
to celebrate this home,
I still tend them. 
For their brief season,
beige and burgundy blossoms
fill my largest vases.

After a storm 
dozens lie ravished 
on the lawn.

Harvesting the fallen
to liven my bouquets,
I trade bare stalks for full,
rearranging, clip spent flowers.
New blooms cleave 
to their withered sisters, 
as the living 
cling to the dead,
and I must gentle them away
under the mute scrutiny 
of fresh yellow tongues.

This poem first appeared in U.S. 1 Worksheets (Vol. 53, 2008).
Used here with the author’s permission.