the beautiful woman in front of you
is not your wife
though you’d like her to be.
You woo her with bouquets
from the garden every day.
She insists on a list and to your astonishment
the names fly out of your mouth
with the speed of hummingbird wings:
agastache, scarlet gila, cosmos.
You’re an architect
of petals. You tell her you’ll twist wisteria,
the scented limbs of cherry trees
into a home. You assemble a gazebo
of leaves for her to wait
while you erect your castle of flowers. Of course,
you will fail. You were never told every fairy tale
is tinged with soot. Look back
over your shoulder
already the woman is dismantling
your carefully constructed hut, the flowers
in your hand have wilted, the castle’s caving in.
A few startled birds flutter in the air,
your voice calling after her.
That’s all that’s left
and nothing else.