The cream has darkened
to brown,
and the coral tips
curl back,
retreating
from the embrace
that began in budding.

Now each head droops
in melancholy,
as though
apologetic
for the brevity of blooms
inconstant as the snow
on earth too warm
to hold its quiet dusting.

The memory of scent
clings to each petal,
a hint of decay
marring the sweetness
of what once was pure.

Susan Dean Wessells