The roofers have not returned
to put on the world’s new ceiling.
Things I look for have not returned.
Crocosmias, anemones,
favorite little orchids that shared
their rarity.
I wait for things to happen,
to fill their nests,
to take away the solitary shade.
Where are my missing comrades?
Was the ice too much for them?
The white blanket of winter
that gently covered the sleep of petals,
the little forever of death
and the birth of new centers
where my eyes could melt
into a flower.
I look for them
and so many are missing.
A hard winter they say,
for me
a drought looking for its rain.