Some Humor for the Flowers

 

That I cannot contain

Guides her fingers in the garden,

Hides the filament that binds

The crocus to her culling hands.

 

I’ve watched her root

Near falling lavender

For hours everyday

And puppeteer it back to strength

By sheer intention.

 

All the summer, ardently,

Sweet William traced her footsteps

to the door in peppered steps.

I have not let it in

But I am losing.