When I arose the petals of the pink
tulips were strewn on the table,
debris of glossy tongues.
Stalks in stale water leaned against
the glass vase, weathered
trees after a storm.
How I withered into bed
when they were still in bloom.
A Sabbath morning, the forecast
is frigid this Valentine’s Day.
Arctic emissary I refuse
to read as any sign.
But the atmosphere
imparts what is germane,
written in wreckage of flowers.