The Crime Scene

Scarlet petals speckle the patio.
– a begonia bloodbath.

Behind the fence on Bryson Lane
no one heard the chipmunk’s nutmeg
foot falls or smelled the yells

of crushed blooms or suspects
a Raymond Shaw betrayal. But
over in the fence corner,

the hydrangea is snappin’.
“The fallen blossoms weren’t there
yesterday and someone is to blame.

That’s the thorny rose of truth.”
Water oozes from the blooms
and snuffs the torch at the flower’s

core. Under the lawn chair,
that chipmunk surveys the scene
on tiny haunches, a twitch of furry nerves.

He knows a plant can’t fudge happy
and it won’t sing unless it wants to.
Go figure. It could have been

last night’s spilled bucket of cold fall
wind. We’ll never know whodunit except
it was inevitable, as these things are.