Turning Over

Turning Over

Here we are again,
lost in a white flurry
of petals, all befuddled

by more fresh evidence:
we only borrow beauty.
Wind hustles the petals

along as though they had
pressing business elsewhere.
And maybe they do, but we

just linger in the dusk, idle
as our torpid koi. Through
a neighbor's open window we

learn Piaf still regrets nothing
while an unanswered phone
rings, and rings, and rings.