They were a gift, 
the sort that comes with 
obligation: 
plant me somewhere 
before I expire 
and so when I awaken 
at 3 a.m. from a 
troubled dream 
I consider where in my yard 
they might flourish, 
in front of the holly that 
grew over-large, or 
behind the daylillies 
along the southern path, 
or maybe out back 
by the stand of narcissus 
where they can show off 
in a place less obvious, 
like dancers in an empty 
hall, rising up in 
full blossom for none 
but their own satisfaction.