Overnight, the front yard
fills with confetti cannon crepe
myrtle blossoms—They have just
come back, but now a wind has shaken
them loose. It has been months, and still
all my messages to you have gone
unacknowledged. My friend says,
as gently as she can, it could also be
that will never happen. Perhaps
all I can have is one day: a stippled
brightness like flame; then the next,
its dissolve. I can't tell what
even belonged to the tree.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
