La fleur que j’aime:
They must have been Molly Bloom’s
favorites since she remembered
how the sun shines for you he said
the day we were lying among the
rhododendrons on Howth head yes,
and Virginia Woolf wrote
in late winter/early spring in
one of her last diary entries
L is doing the rhododendrons. Maybe Leonard
was planning a trip to Rhodes, island
of Rhodos, roses, or just removing
compost, bark or straw mulch,
some burlap, snow or wind screen
from around the shrubs. Perhaps he stood
out in the garden, secateurs
in hand, deadheading the most
far-reaching blossom inflorescences,
their frayed ends dangling as if
they had exploded
like firecrackers. From a distance,
it must have looked like a Greek
dance, one leg crossed over
the other, someone holding a bouquet
of air at the end of each outstretched
arm, praising what comes back
each spring, or doesn’t.
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