In high summer, the honeysuckle heaped itself
On the cyclone fence, on the brittle copper vines
Of summers gone: trumpets of nectar.

She saw us through the winter
With the sweet scent of narcissus bulbs,
Nestled in a bowl of pebbles.

After Thanksgiving, after we went to bed,
The leaves turned. The air went black,
Then blank.

She saw through the winter
With the sweet of a narcissus bulb
Resting in the stones.