The White Garden

The foolish moon 
unhinged by darkness 
has a word for 

the white poppy 
and the tabletop 
of Carrara marble 

set with tea from China 
and cups from a town 
surrounded by hills. 

Come the rain 
the candy-stripe 
of the summer chair 

will muster a circus 
on my watch 
and drips from the gutter 

march a marching band 
from one fence 
to the other. 

Come the wind 
the garden will hold up 
two clenched fists 

and shout a hundred answers 
to questions I 
have not asked 

and afterward,
will have me to know 
the promise of 

one kind of love 
never leaning 
against any other. 

Come morning, the bud vase 
with the yellow flower 
will do as best it can 

but what color 
is the color of where 
the last moon used to be?