Husband

Pressed to walk, alongside
common burdock, I push my voice
against the snapping of wings.
Grasshoppers blooming
in the tremor of hollow heat.
I stop to pluck the husk
of a milk-thistle. Pull just-born, cotton
tufts from desert-dried pods.
Lay these seeds out softly,
offer them up to the sun,
and I think of you, a yellow rose,
withered to the west wall.