It is raining
in the nursery rhyme
of my front yard where two fawns
and a doe have paused
for the mounded hosta leaves
pouring out curvilinear
from their June crown.

I think I am funny
at nine a.m.
with a neat gin
comparing in the snore of my old mind,
liver spots on the back of my arms
with pale ones dappling
red-brown pelage on my guests.

For nine months I have slept
alone. Tossed sheets posttraumatic
on the stab of each hour. Sipped
Sapphire, remembered September–
her birthstone of babies’ bump–
just beginning
to show.

The kousa leaves were
nearly done turning
the day she couldn’t get up.
Hemorrhage of morning linens
twin-soaked down to the
seriousness of boxsprings.
A forever unflowering.