To Miriam

May 4 2012

An old girlfriend

put in these modest beds

for me.

She once worked summers

in her mother’s greenhouse

and knew about plants.

But she had trained as a geologist

then nurse,

went from inanimate bedrock

to soft, and perishable,

from hardy perennials

to touchy annuals.

Demanding plants

whose gaudy blossoms

don’t last long.

I should say former

in case she reads this;

because none of us

likes to be called old,

no matter how true it is.

Anyway, I think of her each April,

when crocuses poke through snow

alarmingly green,

their blooms defiant

in cold bleak spring.

I did not tend this garden well,

under the illusion

perennials take care of themselves.

Yet the flowers surprise me, each season.

as if I’m expecting them to fail.

Needless to say, I also neglected her,

the constant gardener

who was good at taking care.

How little it takes.

Add water, pull weeds

make room for sun.

Especially the light, this time of year

so thin, but clear.

Which not only sustains

but illuminates,

unforgiving

in its glare.

One of my few autobiographical poems. After all, it would have been too easy to just make up the convenient progression from horticulture to geology to nursing. I don’t think the poem works very well unless you know this is true.

I should mention that I am so bad at gardening, I’m not even sure if those are crocuses. All I know is that they come up ridiculously early, and that crocuses do as well. Simple syllogistic logic! They have stems like lilies, and pale yellow blooms.