We waited for the late afternoon downpour
to turn to mist,
when the front garden smelled
of old worms, new earth.
I stepped in the wet;
it took my footprints
with submission.
The weeds had taken over the yellow
in the Yarrow, the patience in the Impatiens,
and the blooms of begonia were beaten purple
in the falling dark.
I handed you a claw to grab brown tangle
that braided beneath Black Eyed Susans and Sedum,
Dianthus and Daylilies.
You tugged, arms outstretched,
sweat rose over your lip like a first mustache,
or the blister ballooning on the side of your finger.
Quietly, dusk gathered under the umbrella
of the Japanese maple.
We pulled the last interloper and headed to drink
the run of cold water
from a hose coiled aimlessly
in the side yard.
© Susan Muse, 2011
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| Dianthus barbatus; photo by AutoGyro at Wikimedia Commons |
