My promise to the future
That spring will come again.
There’s a vacant lot along a street
I drive several times a week
Where wood phlox bloom.
They’ve bloomed each March
Ever since I moved to Texas
Half a hundred years ago
And bloomed no doubt
Before I came,
Will be blooming when I’m gone.
They’re not native to this place
So someone must have planted them
On a sunny day like this
In hope of pleasure for themselves
And maybe for their children
In future Springtimes.
I wonder if they guessed
That I’d be getting joy
From what they did that day,
That in another century
I’d be planting wood phlox,
Remembering their act of faith.
©2018 John I. Blair, 3/24/2018
No comments:
Post a Comment