Arranging Flowers


Roses were the worst,
tight buds,
layered embellishments,
unreliable narratives
that opened, darkened, fell away.

On the third day you didn't rise again,
but the flowers began to stink.

My advice is,
next time you die,
start simple.
Pick a batch of daffodils
yourself
somewhere at the meadow's edge
very early in the morning
while it still receives the shadow of the woods,
before word gets our
that you are ill.
In the evening, discard them.
Start again next morning,
very early.
Repeat this every day through eternity.





Spring

​
Red flash slaps
the thin shy sun.
A second robin
darts from branches
bare since autumn.

I know this tree,
the ash beneath,
knew the young man
whose father planted it,
know the upward
leach of sap
soon to pull
his scattered atoms
back into the green
return of spring.
 
I could show you where
other bodies are buried,
but I’d rather
take your hand and
point you toward
those fat red bellies
thick with sun
that just took flight.