Hydrangeas in the fall
A hydrangea tree stands
In the center of my secret yard
These past three years
I have seen it live and die
Sense the sun and smell the rain
Stretch and reach for the sky
Lose a limb from a hurricane
Come back again and again
What I have learned is
Vistas don’t have to cross
Three thousand miles
As far as the mind can see
I have watched life grow
Make me breathless with awe
Fill my frame with wonder
Three feet in front of me
Delicate petals paper white
Popping into lush bouquets
Clouds floating in sunlight
Over shades of every green
Ring upon ring of flowers
Nestling closer together
Because who are we
Without each other
It is not a rose or a lily
A single stem, glory undisputed
It is a collective, a community
Of mutual love united
This year we changed their color
Ombré bushes of blue purple pink
Bursting forth from broken things
Scattered eggshells and soured lime
Given care and given time
From tender soil under foot
An earthly spectacle taking root
But on the second of September
After a summer of too much heat
They turned maroon without warning
Scarlet red bleeding, seeping
From every sepal and stem
Water jars needing water
Or missing warm nights
Was this as intended?
Indeed there are varieties
That thrive in cool autumn
Limelight, Candy Apple
Names unclaimed by nature
Ideal for selling novelty
And stranger things
Am I a witness to leaves
Welcoming the next season
Or a landscape overexposed
To unending experiments
How can I understand why
When reason has no season
And memory does not rhyme
When I am not the gardener
Only an observer, the keeper
Of another’s design
What I know is this:
Hydrangeas in the fall
Wither and their leaves dry
But their blooms remain whole
Unbothered by dirt and grime
Untouched by frost and rime
Clusters of yellowed stars
Unswept by wind and time
Until they blossom anew
Twining spring and summer
Fanning across the view
Flourishing year after year
Meanwhile I have learned
To embrace the seasons
Where I am planted
And seek silence at noon
I don’t mind the time
To contemplate flowers
When branches grow too laden
Too burdened by what came before
I can prune the dead ends
So that I still have time to write
Time to write
For you