He Brings Flowers

He Brings Flowers

You brought petunias and hung them on my back porch,
their flower heads delicate as a suicide's wrist. You mentioned
the sun, how it wrinkles foliage like discarded basil, like spinach
stuck to a well-used salad bowl. I know about the sun's weighty
gifts, how tulips close each evening like a prayer's palm, then open
skyward as the daylight presses. Since you've left, I've grown fond
of twilight, of jasmine and primrose, of flowers only opening
at night; their redolence set free like new moths.