Aging through August, the hydrangeas
turn from pastels to brick and bronze,

the same rich colors tempering
Brueghel's Triumph of Death,

that ravaging depiction of pillage and war—
the myriad mutilations
we foolishly thought we would modify.

When we die, will our last glimpse be
of brilliance, a smear of color scumbled
over the sour realities left behind?

I wish, but then I look with envy
at two lovers in the painting
having at it under a tree,

the pair of them entwined,
her head thrown back, the creamy neck
exposed as long as paint holds.

Better than years of scrubbing
the resilience of dirt,
cheeks graying along the way.

True, Brueghel's faces are never
Valentine sweet—

you can depend on a darkness there
brooding below the pink.