Perennial
By Jorah Long

I carry the marble
of a dead woman in my pocket-
dark and murky,
in some places deceptively translucent-
warmed by the heat of a life revived again and again.

I pick lilies in February.
Cold petals face the wind fearlessly,
stoic and splendid,
transcending this Texas winter.
I place them on the soft soil of an unmarked grave.

The poppies don't grow here anymore.

 

Copyright 2001