Grand Garden
"Let me show you the garden," she urges
for the second time that week
We share the excitement of watching growth
and retreat
of harvesting
and dividing
West side first, we view
A single vexing Giant Grey sunflower
she's asked me to pull up, but I know she doesn't mean it
alongside the miniature windmill
covered with borrowed birdseed served at the nearby pine tree
heirloom roses like wads of crumpled yellow tissue
she loves these
but I can never remember who they're named for
and she tells me every time
We admire the full blooms of tree peonies, nail polish pink and larger than my head
slowly pass under the apple tree with deceptively beautiful fruit ravaged by maggot flies
and resting in the shade
I poke at an apple with the toe of my sandal
"Take some," she says.
I wrinkle my nose.
"Cut around them," she says with a wave of her hand
like she's saying "Go ahead, eat the last cookie."
coffee filters peek out from the lower leaves of a bright, ancient hosta that needs dividing
one-eyed land swans with geranium loads and fading beaks still manage to look haughty
over sedum and pots of begonias
We walk under clematis trailing up a white arch
as we go back inside to the air-conditioned relief
and coffee, always coffee.
