By mid-August, this is getting old, you guys.
I mean, I’m glad you’re out here blooming
your fool heads off, but to make sure you
don’t expire too soon, I come outside
and squirt you every other day,
sometimes daily when it’s
so ungodly hot we’re
all burning up.

It’s not your fault, of course. I put you here.
I’m responsible for you—at least for half
the year. Come October, I figure you’re
on your own. I’ll move some of you
of you inside or to the front porch
for a little protection over winter,
but you guys in the big pots,
in the ground, your survival
is up to you and the whims
of the garden gods.

Still, I fret in spring when it appears
that some of you have not made it.
I tend to leave even the brownest
of you tucked in the ground, with
the hope for life I can’t yet see.
Now I watch the decay of stalks
brittling in the heat, frown
as the sycamore molts,
throwing off curling
browned leaves like
so many feathers.

But hey, morning glories, you viney,
invasive beasts, you’re still going
strong, forever charming me
with your show-offy purple
skirts just translucent enough
to gleam with fresh gulps of
sunshine all day before
twisting yourselves tight
for the night, then like
parasols you unfurl
under the sun,
earning my
perennial,
slack-jawed
admiration.