I slide a yellow strand of color
into the construction paper cone, tug several stiff
leaves from a rhododendron, wedge another
stalk into the masses of blossom. The pungency of
spring scatters across the counter.
I choose this, and this,
and one of that.
I choose sunlight on a branch,
sand beneath my feet
as I soak the marigolds. I choose the crunch
of cabbage, quick color on my finger from the knife,
the rushed, dusty clamor of gears
from the nine o’clock train. My last spring,
for six weeks more
I will notice the sleek certainty
of twilight, bubbles in pancake batter, the one
red star. I will hold my head strong
in the morning.
My bureau topples with matching socks.
Over a lifetime of uncertain rapture,
I choose finite, regretless felicity,
saucers of cool milk
for a cat named Roger, fingers
scented of lilacs.