White Gladiolas in an Unused Jar

The white gladiolas were planted late, in haste,
and bloom now haphazard from their weight
and too much wind and wet. All summer,
this weekly deluge—sometimes days’ worth

of droplet to drizzle to downpour to gutters
running, storm drains rushing. The season

nearly gone. I’ve picked the horizontal
and cockeyed. Propped them in an unused jar
against the upper cabinets, where heady creams
wait furled like old linen topping an attic chest

while bottom blooms show blood in their cheeks,
an elderly flush of exertion to stand steadfast.

My eldest coils against her age, her growing body
tucked to mine. She insists I will always be
beside her, aware already how the pace of her life
runs toward opening, the brilliance spread

in summering. And mine toward thinning,
my skin a slighter cover in perpetual blush.