The deep strangeness of flowers in winter—
the orange of clivia,
or this creamy white rose
in its stoneware vase, while outside
another white
like petals drifting down.
Is it real?
a visitor asks,
meaning the odd magenta orchid on our sill
unnatural
as makeup on a child.
It's freezing all around us— salt cold on the lips,
the flinty blacks and grays
of January in any northern city,
and flowers everywhere:
in the supermarket by cans of juice,
filling the heated stalls near the river—
secular lilies engorged with scent,
notched tulips, crimson and pink, ablaze
in the icy
corridors of winter.
~ from Traveling Light (Norton, 2010)
