Lacking a dead horse to beat,
I water the garden.
Late August of a very bad summer -
everything is sun scorched
and dry as drought,
but I have a root deep reluctance
to just let go;
wishful thinking is my blind indulgence.
Fall, I say to myself. If we can just hold on till Fall.
Hose in hand,
I watch the water
against the unforgiving menace
of sun and cloudless sky,
then bounce splash the dead, dormant dirt.
If it would matter,
I would fall to my knees on the parched earth,
dig the tender leavings by hand,
and clasp them to my rainy heart.
If we can just hold on . . .
Inquiry has brought me
only quaint tales and distraction:
Fear not! For the Master Gardener will come
to claim this sad herbarium
and take it to the great utopia in the sky!
You will be left with photographs,
lovely parting gifts in probate,
and granite carved grief!
I grit my teeth
and tighten my grip on the hose.
hold on till Fall.
A Flipside poem for Open Link Night at dVerse.