Button

When the button mums —
one plant huge enough to fill the car trunk,
covered in dark orange and simmering yelllow —
go on sale for the price of the pot

we’re close, very close to winter
because it means there’s not time enough
to get them into the ground and have them thrive
and so they will bloom and then die aboveground.

And when the Brooklyn Bridge —
its towers reminiscent of towers now gone —
fills again with bodies that this time
do not flee but resist, and sit, and wait

for the lowering arm of power to gather them in
and grind them slowly through the system,
its price soars and it won’t be sold
cheaply — we’re close, very close

to spring.  

Two crowds full of tiny faces seen from above
may mean different things —
one heralds an end, and one may herald
a beginning, but who will deny that each is beautiful?