Not many things are needful:
silence of peaches, blue stoneware;
silence of sunbeams across the sisal rug;
silence of roses, sipping from their vase.
One thing left strewn from late last year would clutter all.
So much is poised on where the roses sit;
maybe on the bar, maybe on the hutch.
So much is poised on what I name their red:
venous, like the rising moon, or berried, like the rising spring.
For when the red is named or when the petals shift
we sit headlong toward tomorrow
and the poem starts anew.