Spring bursts through everywhere,

pooling

so briefly. Air light

and lifting. A run on

flowers at the shop.

Nothing’s up yet. The selection thin,

a few stems he takes

to her. When she asks

after their names he will pretend

to have forgotten.

Quilted to her bed, she

should be up, out walking, the south face

of each cracked and storied Grandview sidewalk

now free of snow. Melt

spilling off the lip

of gutters, his car idling in the drive.

 

She reached to catch a falling sister, them both

failing, the wheelchair rolling aside, she says. Stupid.

I shouldn’t have been so

stupid. Her back out good

now. He waves the tinted pastel

petals and she raises a weak backhand,

gesturing to the bedside table. A magazine folded

open. You should read about that author,

Margaret Laurence. She lived quite the ordinary life.

 

She smooths the quilt, her torso and legs such

soft furrows. An eroding landscape.

It’s such a short season, she says.

That’s all. Yes, he says. Well,

I have to run. Later, he will wonder

if he left without remembering

to put the flowers in water.