I wake to a bowl of pink and blue
christening almonds. The softest blue,
the gentlest sugared pink of morning
sky that holds its breath until the call
of birdsong interrupts and blushes
gold, an orange, turquoise bloom on fire.
The misted ball of latent heat waits
as earth rolls over into daytime
here where white lilies crack open like
green eggs to reveal hints of white and
and matching orange fire in tiger
strong stamens bristling with pollen gold.
I sneeze and survey the wandering splash
of Ann Folkard, collapsing after
strenuous effort to invade the
fire garden. She has to go. Now.
Lucifer leans to the cleared spaces
clashing with orange, brown day-lilies
but leaving room for the self-sown pink
Japanese anemone to claim
territory and blush behind the
glossy green of spent bergenia.