Yesterday, all the stars were in their proper places.
The earth was waiting to turn green, the peach
tree about to blossom, tint the air pink, bring
in the bees. One phone call, and everything
shifts, a longtime friend's suddenly terminal,
his body turning on his heart and lungs.
I don't want to open the door
to blossoming yard, the cotton candy air,
songs of newly returned birds.
I want to roll up the fake backdrop
of the hopeful blue sky, call back
the days of steady rain, let the coldness
linger. How can we go on, knowing the end
of the story? The lawn greens up anyway,
tossing out its thin curls of cellophane,
the lining for a basket of pastel eggs,
pink and blue and gold, we already know
are cracked.