Pink as Trauma
The gardener comes and chops off fuschia flowers
We waited months to worship. They were pink,
Pale pink and paler white. In shredded showers
Their petals fell. He decided to slink
Off, leaving us to find the trauma once
He’d left. Before he came, the shrub had four
Fresh blooms. He must have thought that I’m a dunce
And wouldn’t see the shredded pastel gore
There on the earth or notice only one
Remained unslaughtered on the bush. But what
Was worse, the careless mowing or the ton
Of scarlet sneakiness he left like smut,
Like fungus on the shattered blossoms? Lopped
Death mixed with slyness where they meekly dropped.