The petunias on the porch deck railing

kill you each morning in their cedar planters.

They keep coming out white as milk,

pink as skin, and as glorious

as lavender daybreak.

They breathe and sigh perfumes

and please you as you near them

like the laughter of children

like your wife's voice in the next room

like her hand touching you as you walk.

The courage of those flowers:

to live out there

in the world as it is

in the full force of the wind

and the full hot face of the day

and the heartless cold

of the star-and-moonless night!

And then to see them there again at dawning,

bold on their firm green stems

and all those buds waiting

and the slow droop of the petals

as you pinch them back

like an Auschwitz commandant

deciding which shall have a moment more,

which shall die,

and gather a handful, naked and spent,

of those which willingly go

and those which fold and fall

and those which hold on so fiercely

it breaks your heart as you tug

and are surprised to find

you have torn off a stem of a plant

with unopened buds

and felt in your own grip

the force of the fury

that drove it through the soil.

And then you toss them from you

and they fall to the clotted earth beneath the deck

where no one goes

and they lie there crumpled

and you forget them

and they change

and blend into the earth:

the Vernichtung,

the finally solved,

the blank,

the used-to-be,

and you close the patio door

where the flowers continue to grow

and fragrantize the air

and keep you happy about the beauty of life

that seems through the kitchen window

always to be there,

a beauty you can count on,

and take for granted,

and never have to question

or look at so closely.