The roses are blooming at a ridiculous rate,
bridesmaids gone awry.
But I like wedding disasters, those reality
shows where the cake falls through the table,
the skirt rips off the bride.
All that pomp and money
turns funny. I want to watch the roses
bloom in bunches, open as the days grow sunnier,
petals falling at the base of the rosebushes,
swirling in the light breeze of late afternoon.
I'll collect what petals I can catch,
keep them in a wooden box, sew them into sachets--
or better, full-size pillows, and we'll have a rose petal pillow
fight until the pillows break, billowing the memory of this particular
spring. The yellow and magenta flowers falling all over our bed,
my face flush with laughter, you manage to reach me for a kiss,
sealing in a perpetual spring.