The garden is her laughing face
two rose-lidded irises shoot off into space
as a strange breeze crosses the aging lawn
and her beehive mouth
full of sharp darting tongues
makes a mockery of the old–three raised veins
over a slender cheekbone
There was a time
when the sunlight’s work on flowers was enough
to be taken at face value
to be weighed and exchanged for love
one transaction still remains fixed in memory
I stole them all lovingly
I had every intention of keeping them alive
Roots of the newer houses surely touch mine
short grasses, long vases
Something morbid has crept into me
Though Death, perched in the clouds
shakes his head sportingly when I call for rain
No more rain, his shoulders seem to say
This is the new weather
Oh? I ask, struggling to read under the dark hood
And what might that bring?
The New Weather 