Moving Pots, Making Choices

 

By John I. Blair 

 

This is the time
For moving wintered pots
To the warming patio,

Making up my mind
Which plants have died
And which still live.

After February’s freeze
The dead loom large
And make me sad.

I’ve always called
Deaths in the garden
“Planting opportunities.”

And that’s still right
But difficult to say
To now-black coneflowers.

Five years or more,
I’ve smelled the scent
Of this withered rosemary,

Watched caterpillars
Grow to swallowtails
On these crumbling fennel stalks.

Long ago we moved,
Leaving a lush garden, with
Only crabgrass where we went.

I said then “gardens aren’t forever,
They’re always for today.”
Now I need to find the truth in this,

To remember sunny springs
And vivid summer days, and dream
The gardens of tomorrow.

©2021, John I. Blair 3/27/2021

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