Part of me wanting everything to live

Daqui

This New England kind of love reminds me

of the potted chrysanthemum my husband

gave me. I cared for it faithfully,

turning the pot a quarter turn each day

as it sat by the window until the blossoms

hung with broken necks on the dry stems.

Cut off the dead parts and watched

green leaves begin, new buds open.

Thinking the chrysanthemum would not die

unless I forced it to. The new flowers

were smaller and smaller, resembling

little eyes awake and alone in the dark.

I was offended by the lessening,

by the cheap renewal. By a going on

that gradually left the important behind.

But now it’s different. I want the large

and near, and endings more final. If it must

be winter, let it be absolutely winter.

Linda Gregg