The wind blew him in, the one I noticed
Late fall or early — does it matter, for he was the perfect shades of blue and blush
Minding his own damn business, but for feasting in my wildflower garden
I had seed to spare and time
There was not a thing more important than to study an old-new friend that day
Eastern not Western, and I knew him some lifetime before
I’ve been taught to grow
My bright green, giv’n blessing to
You’ll want my number
…and as the smoke rolls away
And a new fog-like mist emerges
And I leave all who is Home to me
Tell me there’ll be sun today….
Said the bad Iris
Stay away, smart-mouthed Tulips
Come, sweet Impatiens
Last season’s daisies
Make way for coming clover
The candy-striped petunias I planted and you dug out
The steely-cold shovel you used and I’ll repurpose
The ever-present ghost garden we two cultivated
Once the hydrangeas have decided, there is no turning back. They bloom just for you. Intentionally. Enough sweltering days strung one-after-another makes them crazy enough to believe.
And delusional. They let you walk ever-so-near. They don’t see you’ve a gardener’s shears behind your back. And your intention…to display them on your basement table.