A woman crying has the same smell of cherry blossom buds,
leaping from small thing to small thing
everything is raked, unleafed the summer cobblestone.

Of her ex-season she may ask –
oh, autumn, did you wear a taffeta wedding dress? With pearls?
Because her husband left when she did too,
that silk is such bad luck, frilling slightly as a broken rib
so now the days have slits last winter’s snow was meant to fill.

A clock of seasons and the last time they slept together,
spring sprung an ******* any time she wept, fertilized by salt
these crystals, the pits on a strawberry
and folded a laundry load of wedding season clothes.