Purple petunias
With  deep purple stars
streaking out from the centers
cascaded from the planter.
I watered them before we left.

They were a gift from you
and I trimmed and deadheaded
and adjusted them so well,
To please you (and myself.)

On our return they were browned
and dried out.

But there was still some green
and I could not forget
or let go of its opulence
So I trimmed, deadheaded
and watered them again
Adjusting the stems.

They may never be the same
I know –
But they might recover and
give me second joy.

A Bumble Bee

Weeding the garden I found

a newly sprung lettuce head,

near its out-most leaf, crawling,

I met A handsome bumble bee.

look at you, I murmured and bowed

to see his wings rent

so forsaken he seemed to me

a King Lear imperial and abandoned.

I hailed his majestic wings undone

and harked their mournful hum,

extolled his onyx, gold robe and watched

how he staggered and spun

I turned to the weeds again-

There was nothing to be done.

My Garden

This year I have not spent much time gardening. I tire easy and have not gotten it back to its glory days. But there are some beautiful remnants from previous years’ efforts and I have planted a few annuals throughout our little yard.


My Geraniums are doing well.

The strawberries came back! but my foxgloves have yet to appear. Perhaps we did not winterize the flower beds as well as I thought.


A daisy soon will burst!

There is a place in my garden where the lilies and roses meet.

And the green buds cede to furled copper trumpets.



A child came running to me

With  gifts of weeds

and set them on the picnic table.

There the dandelions were left,

It was not their fault that they were blown in-

a child’s whim to be dropped,

Shrivelled and dried.

these settlers’

stems’ and veins’ ends

were not here, but

in impartial joy-

What am I to say anyway?

That dandelions are intruders, squatters,

I might as well say:

That Father Christmas is myth,

Fairies don’t really exist,

Weeds- do not gift.