To That End
Give me gardens
that don’t hold back,
that sprawl, exceed seed-cases,
tumble over edges.
Here are voluptuaries worth
getting lost in.
I’ve waited decades
for my own rickety gates that list towards
innumerable blooms,
tally them as mine. Abandon was easier
before, devil-may-care came unbidden.
I got lost in flecks
of birdsong,
even called back, stole up
on emerging shoots
now better left unnamed
since naming them
claimed them as mine.
Better to avert this longing?
Lord knows I have tried.
But it rushes back,
this ache for latches that unhinge
as easily as rind sloughs
off a windfallen pear,
as one plot opens to the next,
and I get lost as I inventory
what to thin out next.
Too late for parables
of loss. They have been plentiful,
beyond measure.
I’d like to believe I have held up well,
am ready for stems so thick
they don’t need staking,
leaves in head-lock craning
toward the light,
blooms lambent in their fading,
an abundance that tumbles
despite my care.
MARY FISTER teaches writing and literature at the University of Hartford where she has been part of the faculty for thirty-five years. Read more.