5.
Donít tell me it all ends.
Here with this dirge, this garland
of white roses.   Let me make
a paganís necklace of them.
Iíll have one last dance
around the maypole
until it gets too dark to see.
Then Iíll sit and watch
all the houselights go on
lit by lives I imagine to be happy.
I can still see the neighborhood,
the house I wanted to own,
but never lived in.   Broken trellis
and the rusted porch swing.
The face looking out from
the widowís peak window.
Give me another step,
another chance to weave roses
into something that resembles
a string of uncontrolled fire,
Saturnís brave halo,
the red wing of a hummingbird
hovering above
our gaping mouths.

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