I planted mums for Catherine
to see over the sink in her kitchen,
melted gold, orange,
the red velvet grandmothers wear,
purple turbans,
among the yellow potpourri of leaves.
Things disappear,
die,
go into soundless sleep,
but before winter comes,
a fistful of sunshade,
origami,
sanctums,
tureens of dew.
So much color for Catherine,
winter will be half through
before she looks
for stars falling in the night,
a touch of warmth on her cheek,
violets blooming
in the confusion of a thaw.
While snow
embroiders the grass,
and offstage sounds of birds
return with the fragrance
of an open rain,
the mums,
their brown heads swaying
become the remnants
of a glory over.