The zinnias—cut-and-come-again
are dry as Mother’s hair. They crush
beneath my hand. The lilies, though,
are further gone than that, sunk down
into their bulbs, as Mother has
gone underground. Each spring they burst
into their almost human flesh-
white blooms like all they’ve ever made.
But not the same. A different bud
dyed with the same returning color.
The marigolds, though, cannot withdraw.
They’re hybrids. They don’t seed. Next year
they won’t be back. And so they flower,
the withered blooms beside the red
ones that seem garish now, and cheap.
I pick the browns off. The reds
bloom grimly through a dozen frosts
to the first hard freeze. They cannot stop.
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