a path I would have chosen:
these white flowers, though charming
hint of winter snows to come.
All the Queen Anne's Lace
this narrow spit of land could hold
can never compensate
for the roses and the poppies, lost;
the purple phlox and daffodils
that spring and summer brought
are gone, and this black path
remains, and pulls me ever closer
to the dark that waits and beckons.
Perhaps I'll pause, and pluck a bit of lace
and tuck it, Spanish-style, behind my ear:
a bright insouciant companion
to help me dance the road ahead.
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