The End of the Garden

You must forgive me
for loving the tumbled garden, the end
of the zinnias, bent or leaning,
curved like the new covenant,
each new green stem sprung from the main brown stem
standing up straight toward the sun,
each tight new bud holding its secret
pink or orange against the blue-gray sky.

No one wants to discuss death
but now the four-o’clocks open before dawn.
Moonflowers swallow the darkened day.
We don’t have to sneak out at night to see them!

Everything is sweet.
The air is sweet.

Yes, the flowers bow down to the earth.
When they nod their heads
they are seeding the spring with wild calendula,
forget-me-not, yellow cosmos, blue cornflower.
When they shake their heads, it is the same.