The orange flowers that grew outside my door
Died last night.
I didn’t know their names, or what to call them.
They hid themselves
In the sanctuary of the ground,
To wake with color when Spring drew near.

They had known fierce Winter for years before.

Last week, warm, the West Wind came
And they sensed the time to wake,
To wake from their resistant sleep.
Blossoming out, and into color, they grew
As I watched them on my way
Each morning to face
Each chronic day.

Last night, the air turned to frost.
Mere hours they bloomed, dying in the afternoon, then falling.

This small beauty, whose joy I came to know,
Savaged and killed by an unworthy frost.