In the gardens we water
the flowers surround us, move ever closer.
They are not bright, not colorful,
but who can blame them—
so long without light, without bees to carry them on.

Every time a petal falls 
the flowers open the granules of their hearts
             they burn for us
             right in front of us
             as if we asked them to.

We are weary, fearful.
Though without speech they tell us
we cannot know the meaning of such words.
           Who do they think they are?
            I have almost died many times, like that night
            with the shattered driver after events in Beirut.

He would not stop the car. 
He would not stop his stories
of pulling his cousins from the rubble.
I just wanted to go home.
I fled the taxi into the grey slick night,
his shrill tales pounding on the concrete
as if his very own were underneath.

I can still hear him scream at me,
What have you held in your hands
underneath the rain?
These are my flowers. These are my stones.

He collapsed against the wheel.
These are my stones, he rasped
pounding the windshield        

he would not stop pounding.

His car buried itself under the fall of petals.

I watched it.

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