Cut Flowers
by Robert Carr
When you count daily, 17 years
between your age and your mother’s
age at death — Is there something, pushed
from a brown eye of soil, you’d like to say?
Does the joy of breaking ground — planting bulbs
on a new-found farm — split between preparing
a spring garden and a grave? Does your plan
for a brindle puppy hinge on an empty dog bed,
the old friend that breathes beneath a blanket
beside you? Do you shake — repulsed to wonder
if time has come for loved ones
to leave you money? Are you missing
something? Or is it just the stems
of tulips, standing in a glass cylinder
growing very fast, rootless, that frighten
you? Petals, as they pile on a mirrored table?