2008/gardeners

The gardeners
talk loudly
in Spanish,
clipping the roses
outside the window
where I sit.
Laughing as
they go.
Usually it is
the clippers I hear,
today only voices.
So I look out
to see for myself.
It’s early, I’d
rather have quiet.
But I’m glad
to see the clumps
of brown blooms
in their hands.
To have the death
gathered like dust,
and lifted
from the halo
of the house.

6/11/08