If I don’t know how to be thankful enough
for the clusters of white blossom.
on our mock orange, which has grown tall
and graceful, come into it’s own
like a new start just out of ballet school,
and if I don’t know what to do
about those spires of sky-blue delphinium,
then what about the way they look together?
And what about the roses, or just one of them-
that solid pinky-peachy bloom
that hollows towards it’s heart? Outrageous.
I could crush it to bits.
A photograph? A dance to Summer?
I sit on the swing and cry.
The rose. The gardenful. The evening light.
It’s nine o’clock and I can still see everything.