this is where the hyacinths come to die
after the summer floods, tornadoes,
the blandness of August when May was so subtly luscious
and June was nothing but a damper:
the maidens hide themselves
as September creeps up, they plan their grand romantic gestures
by using twigs to draw in the moist July soil—
keep the telling signs under spring dresses here
while i plot what to do with these sunbeams
shining through my window: everyone is gone
and now the world is ours as the heat weaves in the air
off of the sidewalks and black streets paved over
our wonderland (this is where the stamens made love
to breathe into this new life significance)
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