I wasn't ready to spot coincidences on this Blue Monday in the blog, but I found "a dead-blue tulip" in the poem "Last Dream of Flowers."
The poems are quiet and gripping, like a cold and snowy day at the edge of the woods, silence fallen. The title poem begins:
Even while we talked, snow must have been falling. Now it's a scar:
I've mostly failed in the rooms
of honesty and forthrightness.
Then there's the story of a child sledding.
I find myself reading and re-reading these snow-packed or gently drifting poems. I see little flickers of red and flame and skies and fields of snow. In "Flame,":
Your heart, red wax,
slipped soft from its nail. I shaped it back, and the two of us lay waiting
in a cabin's draft.
What if you could live in a box, a camera obscura?
A small, simple box with a tiny hole
for light to come through,
make everything clearer?
Or a snow globe? In the middle of the book, in the middle of the poem "Obscura," the scene becomes object suddenly:
Shaking the scene now, snow falls,
smoke rising up to meet it.
I am not ready for winter. I am not ready for snow. It is only August. Ah, but those first yellow sweet gum leaves already litter the yard.