Late Gardens


(for Georganne)


These days morning with a deep honey light and air
    is a lure that makes you hesitate—
as though abundance under the brimming sky
    will require the utmost you can give,
    then more,
as though the enclosure of late summer—
    blossoms heavy with sweetness,
    and leaves relinquishing green to truer colors,
    a coming syrup that will drip down—
will hold you accountable
    for such weight, until you are convinced
    this might once last forever, and are fearful.

These mornings, just rising is like looking up
    life in the encyclopedia, for explanations
    that fill all need to know.
The paisley growth around you
    refuses to take you in.
In the end, there’s nothing to be done
    but make your vague way among the gardened flowers,
    snip a faded bloom, pinch back a token of overgrowth,
and to refrain from crushing,
    as though reverence for the delicate
    amid such denseness
is salvation.


Share This Article With Someone