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.

 
 

Joseph O. Legaspi
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