for Chelsea
The tulips have flowered too early.
I cover the beds in white sheets
to keep them warm.
Frost pulled down from the stars
will soften
into a remembering
by morning. I am no mother
to the flowers or anyone.
It’s spring
and the world feels more delicate
than before.
Winter clipped. New wings lifting.
Doves adoring the sound
of their own song.
I have been told
some plants bloom once then die.
Flight is the answer,
though water can be an answer too.
Everybody (body) a vanishing act.
Seed without root.
And now the petals fall,
wishes to love
and love-me-not.
And now, the sound of distant laughter
enters my open window,
like ghosts. Softer now,
gentle weight of these small bones.