Ten thousand saw I at a glance
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

…Until their blooms go grey.
Shriveled on fat green stalks, they
hang their heads low to lament
other blossoms who have lost their spring flush.
I pry them off, snap, snap,
on my way from somewhere to somewhere.
     What are you doing? she wants to know.
Trimming off the dead blossoms.
     She pauses. Pensive mood.
     Aunt Sherry’s dead.

It doesn’t land with a thud,
it flutters to the ground and gets caught
on a knife blade of grass.

What do you think “dead” is? I want to know.
A flash upon her inward eye.
     “When it’s Christmas I can play with
     the fragile angel.”
Yes, my dear,
when the stalks are gone too,
when new bulbs are plunged into the earth,
you can.


“I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud” by William Wordsworth