The Fall Flower Show at Phipps
I wander among the mums, their colors dimming, as if to foreshadow
light’s diminishment.
A candle burns in my kitchen, my father’s Yahrzeit. Time
pulls a quarter from my ear,
says I will never understand
its curves and space.
In through the outdoor garden, bonsai: Japanese Crabapple,
Korean Hornbeam, Chinese Juniper.
See their elegant forms and the exquisite care needed to restrain their growth,
years of work to send one branch upward,
another reaching back as if to embrace.
Do these trees retain remnants of cells holding the instinct to stretch, carry within themselves
the sky’s deep blue? Do they mourn what is lost, as I do,
my skin itchy with boundaries, hemmed in by my house’s walls, my yard’s perimeter,
the way a mask shallows my breath?
My father loved autumn, earth
a gilded Klimt. Once, my husband and I stood in a gallery in Vienna,
The Kiss before us, amethyst and crimson, emerald and gilt, it breathed desire.
In the park, wind disturbs gold and russet leaves, scatters them
around three people practicing Tai Chi as they balance on one foot, swirl
scarves above their heads, their moves deliberate, contemplative.
My ginkgo wears leaves the color of small suns. See them flutter
like prayer flags,
send blessings into air.
At home, my orange tree grows in a ceramic pot the color of almonds, each leaf an ellipse.
The oranges are small as limes.
Soon they will brighten, but their taste remains bitter.