Pale Spring by Janet I. Buck
Canvas of spring,
despite its rutilant bloom,
gathers its palette from memory —
tines of a fork scraping a plate
now empty because you died.
I haven’t the patience for bulbs,
for smoothing soil like
the furled hem of a favorite dress.
On the other side of a fence
a bloodhound scratches in dirt,
dizzy shovels of his paws
mimicking the lost caress.
A breeze blends into silences.
All my efforts lean and fall
as if a symphony has closed—
the roots and dust, a tea bag
strangled by its string.
I purchase pots all prearranged,
plop them on the cedar deck—
wishing your hands would somehow
return to the gaunt world of touch.
Something is gone like love from sex;
the bed is simply cold.
Jaundiced photos in a book
incite me to gamble again.
Both my thumbs are stone.