They collect rose petals. They place them
in plastic takeaway containers; then they drive.
The road’s never too busy – it’s Sunday morning.
Two boys chatter the drive away,
past the windows and past the empty seat
that so suddenly appeared between them,
instead of their sister.
It is thirty-eight months old, but the car
slows down to twenty – ducks crossing.
A narrow steep driveway.
Four doors open, four feet will walk slowly,
the other four race away, past the plaques
and the vases, past the windsocks, past
so many plastic flowers last night’s stormy
wind must have spread around.
They bring young flowers, blooms for an old sorrow.
They’re like silky raindrops,
like tears falling down from the sky
dropping like a warm blanket for winter.
Rose petals on the lawn:
they cover the emptiness their life has become.
So many rose petals! So delightful! So smooth!
These are teary petals,
they are grief-stricken blooms.
(c) Jorge Salavert, 2012