May Flurries (an occasional poem for today)

So. It's May 24th and it’s snowing
on what little potential for beauty
this garden holds. I doubt beauty, knowing
in my heart that such flurries are routine.

I know what you’re thinking. I know you’ll say
you saw that heart coming. Like any flake
it flutters. Melts on contact. A cliché
is all it is, you'll say. Give me a break.

And I will. Hearts break. Look at my garden,
at Jacob's ladder, at the globeflower's
ice-bound buds. It’s cold. No doubt they'll harden
like I did. Go straight from frozen to sour.

Being sour, I know these buds won’t open,
will never look better. But here’s hoping.