There is an empty space in my backyard,
Next to a bed of purple flowers,
Planted there for an effect of spring
With flowers on the patch on which I lie.
Loneliness and death are not the same
But in this world we relate them closely,
The dead are given flowers and I give myself
Sheets with flowers on my bed
Wrapped in foil
Fresh from a box
Frozen for fifteen days
Flown in from some place where its spring
A fresh rose
I would be tiered
carrying the spring for so long
frozen in me
I would have preferred
To bloom, open, fill the air with fragrance
And dry in the sun
But rose, you carry the spring enslaved to me,
In this room where I wither,
I try to recall
Did I really bloom?
When was it?
that perfect moment of bloom?