The closer I move to menopause
the farther removed I am
from any fervor I might once
have felt for cursory gardens
where everything’s coming up
wholly white roses.

This year alone
I planted self-obsessed jonquils,
princely purple petunias
with the weft and weave of velvet,
and an annual affectionately
known as moonflower.

I am ditzy
with my little rush of narcissus;
I cannot stop caressing
the palliative petunia petals;
and the night-blooming moonflower
died prematurely, scorched itself
not knowing I had become Amaterasu.

In the judge’s chambers today,
I scribble “too many white roses”
in the blank that requests
“Reason(s) for Divorce.”
My attorney irritably scratches that,
writes “Irreconcilable differences.”
The fifty-year-old female clerk
types it in as originally written.