Milflores, I say—

hydrangea, hortensia. Blue that I love
         to snip this time of year, stems
I plunge in water collected in mason
         jars. Blue like the blue of sweet
pea flowers; blue from weeks of heavy 
         rain, decomposing matter, somewhere 
perhaps a chain of chemical rot. I have no
         word for my satisfaction in this  
planetary network I carry indoors in my hands,  
         after I've shorn off its protective  
ruff of green hearts— They fall on sunken slate,  
         my careless discards. Perhaps they'll  
return to haunt me in the fade of night. Or
         perhaps even now the wind has lofted  
them out to a different sea where they'll float
         and sink, free of prayer or offering.