After the Storm

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

Dianthus barbatus; photo by AutoGyro at Wikimedia Commons