There is a conference of petals around me. The UPS man’s pant stripe breaks repeatedly up the stairs each day.
It begins with the begonias. Then the tulips trickle in.
Rows of roses.
A peony party.
It’s floral and funereal and, to me,
Further proof that I’m Persephone,
Further proof that the underworld is as real and well
As this green-leafed garden I’ve hauled up from hell.