It was thunderstorming when you died,
summer rain, my face wet all week.
Steam slithered at my ankles. Earlier,
I had watched clouds turn
the blue pond green. How strange
to cry in June, to be in the world’s garden
without you. In the hospital light,
my green dress was blue. Tall flowers,
like priests, above the bed
dropped a thumbprint of pollen
onto your forehead. Seasons ago
we knelt together, burying bulbs
in earth. Only grief knows
what color the lilies will be next
year, when they come back.