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As the sun continued
its perpetual revolution,

(other people were setting sun dials
with astronomical accuracy)
while I silently killed,

cutting errant forsythia and weeping cherry,
in full bloom against
an impossibly blue sky,

delicate paper whites,
differing shades of yellow daffodils,
and fragrant, lopsided hyacinth

to fill one vase for the dinner table
when what I really wanted
was to rage against the dying of the light
in his eyes,

or to fill each and every room of home
with dirt and moss, helpful worms
and early dandelions,

all because I have never tried that
but the shadow of tulips
not yet open, was so simple and clear,
momentarily possessing strength,
promising crimson.