I ask myself
though there is no answer,
I know.
Of what will bring
me solace.
Not the camellia that
comes with snow
I could not suffer
winter too.
The peony though
brave to risk the spring
misplaced here
with its good fortune.
The rose, no, no,
You, un-temperamental,
know no pretense of
a diva.
I need to spare the scotch
Or else be sentimental.
Surely the yellow, then
brown,
I wish for their plain
happiness.
And the good they
left in place.
It must be
the sunflower,
their stems in
van gogh’s vase.