What a good year it’s been for the flower garden: wide gold fringes
of black-eyed Susans, third round of fragrant blossoms on the cottage rose
bright zinnias dancing when the soft wind blows another kiss onto
summer’s sun-worn cheeks. Years ago a white-haired woman told me,
“Flowers start to die when you pick them.”
The mornings are chilly lately. It’s not quite autumn, or so I say,
wanting to linger among the gardens longer. But the season says
get ready. I pick apples. Pull warmer blankets out, bake pies. Print
recipes that remind me of my grandmother. My thoughts are like
a wheel, top curve going forward
even as the lower curve rolls regrets behind. What did I promise
for you this year? Have I remembered enough? Autumn’s ready to ask
restless questions, press prickly answers. There’s a hard frost ahead
(not yet, please, wait a while) and the late robins call, “Prepare,
prepare!” Listen, we didn’t do lunch
as often as we said we would. You said you’d answer my letter later
but things got busy; I didn’t find that Saturday night to share; gardens
we didn’t visit speak love between us anyway. You don’t need to ask,
ever. I let go of vows you couldn’t keep, whatever reason; you know
I meant to give you more bouquets.
In a world grown strange and out of sorts, Someone Else forgives what
we forgot to get around to. The flowers we didn’t pick lived longer.
Release, revise, remember.
Renew.
