Shy Lilies
In the orange tree
a fledgling mockingbird's
needle shriek
stabs the cochlear idyll
of our garden.
I can't bring myself
to the cemetery
where summer's ascendant fahrenheit
pummels orchids on your grave
that I didn't place,
the very arcs of white halos
blooming beside the patio
in shaded numbness.
Now my prayer is for lilac silence
of shy lilies, forgetting last night
when dreaming of wishing blood
from roses on your stone.
In granite paralysis it wouldn't rise,
yet you were there beside me
and still alive.
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