(for Deborah Meltvedt—happy birthday!)

•••

They keep coming back,
the ones we thought vanished—

the persistent tiny violas,
the Johnny Jump-Ups,

the hollyhocks—which,
after the flowers wilt to

folded umbrellas, much
as they started—we cut

within an inch of the earth
from which they rose.

Where does such loveliness
store its perennial know-how?

How might we absorb that
acceptance of a season of

growth and flourishing,
then withering and dying?

Perhaps they return each year
to teach us spacious stillness,

to remain undisturbed by
others’ comings and goings,

to rest when it is time to rest,
to grow when it is time to grow,

to let go when it is time to go,
that inner knowing a deep

assurance that there is more
to come. So much more.