The Greenhouse
So this is paradise, I would think
When, in late winter, we stepped out
Of winter and into spring.
The greenhouse was glorious,
But it was a rushed, undeserved glory.
To go in was to be catapulted
A month ahead and to leave
The overwintering land behind.
Through the fogged windows
The earth seemed cursed
So that I felt guilty, the same quality
Of guilt I felt after glimpsing
Our Christmas presents
Through the gap
Between sliding doors.
I wanted her to hurry up
And choose her herbs and geraniums
Already, her lily and tulip bulbs,
My guilt turning to longing
For the moment when
We stepped out of spring
And into winter
And I would think
So this is the world.
* * * * *
Blank Headstones on Display
If what is engraved in a headstone
Is dead then the dead are
Whatever is reflected in these
Blank headstones on display.
My car, in passing, has passed
Away, as have the gray September
Clouds and the blue of the new
Super Walmart across the way.
One day a name will make this
Or that headstone specific
But for now whatever comes
Before their obsidian mirrors,
In being reflected there,
Is memorialized, if only
For a moment, and one
Need not have done
Anything to deserve it
Apart from happening
To be passing through
The west side of Galena, Illinois.