late fruit

it's my fault
the blue dahlia
is blooming late

its ripe goddess bulk
leaning on stilts
into the near-frost nights

and yesterday
they rolled away
my entire house
in four dumpsters

my fault, naturally

that the trees are, finally
down
after a day-long barrage
of men, ropes, and saws

and my fault, now
in this late light

that the mountains
glow golden
into the blue distance

over fallen logs
past a shimmer of creek
not seen

in that lush season
of rotting beams,
misplaced flower bulbs,
moss in the mind