Three Days in Flower

Monday he went away.

The moon was in her sign,
the weather smiled,
she cut Jacques Cartiers,
thornless,
pink as in holiday.

From a champagne flute
they waved intimate,
buds opened,
centers fulfilled;
she dreamed in their arms,
cloud and city,
music swelled.

Thursday
one wrinkled, mauved,
one sang alone,
one threatened suicide
on glass-topped table.

He flew home.  

   Contributor’s notes   
   Eve
   Homesick in Paradise
   Lawrence at the Etruscan Tombs
   R.J.
   Transcience
   When to Stop

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