Sending Flowers to
The "Flame of Holland" bulbs I'd meant
for her front walk are ruined now.
I dawdled, autumn came and went;
to bury them felt wrong somehow.
The Chaco Indians, I've read,
would smash clay pots as offerings,
furnishing houses of the dead
with the souls of ruined things.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Rose
Kelleher would be
pleased to hear from you.