Martha's Bouquet of Flowers

Last afternoon,

I noticed the immobility of the photographs clinging to my living room wall

And recalled the point, when they walked in August

pulling true tears—fresh and from the package

out my eyes and to this age

curved and still

cold and true.

 

At the end of my war against gravity,

I found my silence and nothing else.

My silence—a martyr of newness and oldness.

In this place, I do little but listen.

 

And time’s rigid victim can indeed keep its quiet

as downstairs a load of laundry is spinning

and swiftly and surely,

Martha’s Bouquet of Flowers will be wrapped cleanly in perfect linen.