By Linda Garrity
I wish you could see my garden this morning, after last night’s rain.
The euphorbia’s spiny-looking leaves are wearing liquid silver drops.
Liquid pearls lay on the iris.
(A squirrel is taunting my cat with a flourish of its bushy tail.)
The figs are ripe and swollen;
Their purple, bulbous, bodies bursting with the flavor of rain.
A spiderweb is suspended between the hoya hanging basket and the copper whirl-a-gig,
The spider undaunted by my intrusion into his natural domain.
I feel a forest in the lone Metasequoia standing in my yard,
Her’s is a feathery, fern-like beauty.
I have rattles from my baptisia
that could rival any rattler.
Eloquent sages speak and rosemary remembers that she too will diminish with thyme.
I listen for what the plants may reveal to me,
And I realize I no more own this garden,
then I do the sun or the rain.
9-17-17 / 9-19-17
