Forty hosta hastily transplanted last fallto the sandy verge, the steep bank nudedwhen the hollowed maple, lifetimes inthe making met its maker; these hostanow have yellowed, furled, rolled limp,a blight to con the eye, invite attentionto a lawn gone sepia. Blades of grassnow brittle sticks, wind’s rusty chant,rasp, fiddlesticks and tendril threads,tall clumps to say nobody lives here.
The rose bush dead, already petrified,strong succulents all curled a shrivel-withered brown. One lush anomaly:Rose Campion Lamb’s Ear rooted’round the female holly bush, brightspiky leaves from silver soft surround,pink valiant blossoms, bold and strongto do the thing good lipstick does.
Hidden Primrose. Remembrance Rouge.Abandon. There is a shade to christenevery life condition. Sunset Lavender.Marauder. Jade. The bare, black cherrytree whose limbs Spring draped for twentyseasons in soft Pink Lady Promise, old,shabby, surely wanting care. The same,the lawn, the house, the lady who lives there.
And so, it seems it only takes one summerwithout rain, a drift of weeks, the worldgone mean, to make a start then, offer ageassent. To give surprised consent, or toat least – time bossy, brooking no dissent –begin to know there is a change nowon its way. Not today. Not right away.But coming. Closer, I can tell, and yes,untimely, but foreshadowed now.Less unexpected.
And so now by loss readied,verdancy, the shading done,time today to let light come.
Photo by TheRegisti on Unsplash