The arrangement can only be made
from what is there in the garden
among the spring’s fresh birth.
Insistent rain enfolds
petals and blossoms—
accompanies hushed birds
and muffled traffic sounds,
distinct only in retrospect.
Last summer’s basket
in which I would have laid each piece
hasn’t turned up.
It’s been laid aside somewhere,
so I hold the fresh-clipped stems in my mouth.
Some taste bitter,
others earthen and whole.