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.