She’s old, my neighbor, planting daffodils

and hyacinths, these plump brown hopes asleep

for now, when she addresses me, that voice

deep, curved like a construction hook, as if

she’s building with that voice things both of us

will need. A kaffir lily, bare root nude

is offered for inspection, years away

from blooming orange trumpets, syllables

blown bright. There’s so little light left now.

Inside I watch her bordering the beds,

determined, making order to impose

love’s colors—to oppose a nothingness.