Something Strange Across the River Page 8

  A lingering mosquito

  Stabs my forehead

  Spot of my blood.

  From your pocket

  Produce a tissue, wipe it away.

  Toss it in the corner of the garden.

  The stalks cannot support the weight of the amaranth leaves.

  With night, the fog grows cold.

  Without thought of the evening winds

  The leaves,

  Without thought of their approaching deaths,

  Their burning embroidery grows brighter,

  Even as their stalks bend and curl.

  The butterfly grown ill

  Totters on broken wings

  The flowers bloom in the shadows

  Of the dying leaves