An August evening

This afternoon I was writing a poem but it kept disappearing
a blank screen had words on but they faded away
erased by an inner logic of self-critic.
I like red roses but when I write about them it sounds banal
and a thousand songs about roses make me feel lethargic
wasting my time; Gertrude Stein said. A rose is a rose…
I have tried to write about Tulips and think of Amsterdam
I was there often when a ******.
I prefer *** plants now; they need watering but are safe
like dinner at five.
Lily is a flower in much demand in Copenhagen, don´t why?
All I know about Denmark is “Hygge” and “frikadeller.”
I look out of the window and see a tree-lined avenue and
notice the leaves are slowly yellowing it makes me feel sad.