***

In what turned out to be more cosmic irony

had pushed myself, some few yet long weeks back

to force myself to make myself a secret separate plan

a big big change for this fifth year bereaved — had dug out

pretty Valentines and sundry gifts of love from my dead love

Determined, first time since his sudden death

to somehow live through red rose day, to mark it,

honour, as we always did, that holy lovers date

Acknowledge it at least, not hide from it, not just go dark

Dress up, at least, and read his words, buy flowers red

And drink a toast, perhaps, to grateful memory of love

(Remember to be grateful for being loved, they say —

makes sense, yet leaves me raging, mad and sad)

But now — now fear of flooding, flood of feeling

Flow together, seep wetly into everything

Make these small plans undoable, absurd

Can't put on silly silky stockings, can't drink champagne

Read poetry, be privately, sappily symbolic

Not now while poison water may be welling up outside

To swamp this home where we both lived and loved

Must be prepared! Girl Scout in thick boots and coarse jeans

for digging out from dire flood-borne mire and muck

Must be alert! to spot and call in more emergencies

Or harken keen for plumber's loathsome longed-for knock

***