the mornings, like so many things, begin
to grow colder.
there’s a heavy dew brushed across the lilac.
petunias closed up like rigid fists in pink and white and red;
the yellow chrysanthemums already popping.
is it too late to hold out hope
of strawberries? of eggplant?
of cotton blossoms by abandoned roads
that make me sad and alone
and in love all at the same time?
like the past that won’t leave
makes me think of snow and secrets
and, for some inexplicable reason,