FOR A WIDOW

You haven’t become a flower for years.
That is to say, you have not gardened
nor been gardened in otherness
since his death. Your bones stay stubborn,
in your face and everywhere else.
Spring moves its soft bones
in wind, presses them against walls
of your house. Neighbors mutter things
scratchy voices say in grimy hours.

Look in the mirror darkening evening.
Will your face return to its softness,
melt into the flower you knew
and become now only when asleep,
when no one can enjoy your petals
but dreams. Deep inside, your dark stem
roots in the green past and drinks

the soft juice under the hard world.