I bring yellow tulips to the grave
and hope you will stand looking down
as I have for months, a life
the shape of a mountain.
Webbed net wings flew, freezing,
through the coldest winds, undone by
May's gusts, bringing the fall
while others were rising.
The thaw that burned a dragonfly's wings.
They gathered around a limp body
leaking salt water
and they could only ask
"But who is the father?"
No denial. I could say:
The angel was late, but we both know
that is a lie.