In bloom, the bolls
of flowers resurrect
Evening in Paris
from Bergdorf’s crystal
vials, or five-and-dime
glass, fogged thickly

through the sliders.
My mother wears Joy,
with its jasmines and May
roses, created, it was said,
for cheer in the Depression.
Once, a bit of the stopper

slid down the neck
of her bottle, trapped
until tapped through
with a scissor
like a fumbled cork.
Her lipstick tube,

dull gold with scrollwork
at the swivel; empty, I held on
to it for years. In May,
the viburnum bush drops
its fruit into the ivy; spring
is for divesting,

but I never could,
even mourning
what I did not know,
but miss: automats,
telegrams, the red farmhouse
my parents owned,

red as the Japanese maple
they took with them
when they moved; unpruned,
it overtakes the backyard
canopy, makes the old growth
seem strange.