They nestle inside like a hundred
tiny puppies waiting to be born,

snuggled so tight they can hardly
be separated. But my visiting friend

from Canada studied the dried
pods dotting the gangly husks

of formerly green stalks. She,
who understands the nature

of flowers and other growing
things, took home some of

the nickel-sized bundles to
her garden. I imagine her

peeling open the husks to
free the bounding seeds,

letting them burrow their
way into rich northern soil

and set about becoming
hollyhocks. If I let my pods

remain, they will burst as if
on a timer, programmed

to literally spread their seed
like overeager males everywhere.

I have never planted a hollyhock
pod, not one eensy seed,

but they have somehow found
their way to my little plot of soil,

surprising me each spring when
fresh stalks begin to rise like

green pencils. Yesterday I cut
some of the dried stalks

still ornamented with pods and
tossed them into the green bin.

Others I’m leaving so I can
witness the reliable cycle

of growth and aging into
death and resurrection,

a needed a bit of reassurance
that we’re not done yet,

that there’s new life still
to come.

•••

For Sue Reynolds and her marvelous Canadian garden.