Cold and the sullen wind sneezed.
Hardly awake yet, the ground lay
white with the trees wealth.
You could easily scoop up
a heap of petals if it weren't
such a hackneyed image:
on our altars even the flowers are
art, not a profuse abandon, not
like the fragrant abundance
wilting in the hot, hot sun -
The soil wouldn't mind. It would
not question, but accept, and smile.