White Roses

A glass vase on my desk holds

a dozen white African roses. I’m told

Mik died suddenly in Krakow. Not old,

not ill, we thought, and rarely sad.

Rust, cream, and cobalt blue

run base to flute, blown through

a flaming pipe. Once, in a Krakow café, 

ordering wine and ostrich-eye filet, 

he said, Poles know their ancestors,

White petals brown. A crisp leaf

drops with a tick, the way Mik’s wife 

quipped—Like you, I’m a book snob—

taking my arm in the bookish tea shop.

I am? My father was, once he’d read

all of Dickens in English. I dreaded

his lectures. At the European Union,

Mik interpreted French, English, German. 

After last week’s bombings in Ukraine,

he wrote, Of course, we’re scared. Again.

And who isn’t? Look at the past. Mik, 

I told myself, tomorrow I’ll send you a note.