On the red bricked wall, the mums have grown strong, 
not alone, not without well placed water, 

but with the whole of the wind, listening 
like crowds drawn to a disastrous scene, 

They lift up once they are cool; a soft Lazarus 
of the soil, bolstered by caretakers with a mantra. 

* 

Thirst is satanic. In each petal the shape 
loses itself in the ‘din of bees’ (as Plath stated) , 

the motives behind where they are placed, on 
the bottom, on the swept parts cried upon 

and laughed upon. First frost, freezer of mind, 
turns the world on itself; the blue, the tip of emotion. 

When winter runs its cold, gray course, they’ll sit up, 
breathing the same air which snow flakes breathed, 

alive and invested in the situation, 
closer to the cliff where others will fold.