No time is, as yet, wasted.
A patriarch walks the summer
garden with a length of hose,
taking on color, attending to
the splendor of his given
grace. The toddler drawn
fervently to dappled concrete
finds focus in a fountain.
Mud cuts the burn. Nowhere
tomorrow, nothing but
trim. To color an ethos
before it fades, or let it
dim. Your aging disregard,
a paradise more decided than
observed, though from this
stately boulevard lined with
magnolia and oak, we
haven't got the vantage
to cavil or cry. An inheriting
blue, a civil flower. And wild
chamomile, a simple weed.