All Too Short a Date
The tree began its disappearing act
Late yesterday. Some petals, fluttering, fell
Unnoticed. Beauty’s zenith now has slacked
Off slightly. Pinky whiteness’s full swell
Has slumped away in springtime’s breathing night,
And now that daytime’s breezes have begun,
A snowless snowstorm has increased the flight
To pale reduction. In the May Day sun
A scattering of fragrant death resumes.
Slow motion dying is the order of
This morning. Slight predestinated dooms
Befall the limbs as emblems of what love
And living hopes must yield. No use to pray—
This tree will be ignored each August day.