In the Garden

By Peter Halstead

The bugs are out today, courageous
Naiads with ancient wings
waddling across the ages,
below the bitter melon
in late stages of its bloom,
bees pursuant, and
in the riots of their gardens,
perfumes of the summer.

Flies are there, and libellules,
not for any reason, just
their daily iridescent zoom
above the algae pools;
ants scurry as they must,
mercies still undone,
dirt piles to be broomed.

The point of it, this solstice,
is to make a tiny airborne
pocket around a valley
where the winds swap
waterfalls of wild rocket,
their endlessness worn easily,
for bougainvillea,
the luxuries of bog’s
green grief wavering in seeds
of mustard, vetch, and gourd,
bursts of filarees and weeds
that hide in morning fog,

Too moody for the sun,
too moral for the noon,
plants astounded
at their own survival
in a place that’s numb
to what is strewn around it
with the languid filigree
and whorl of an Anthurium,
a June that’s undeniably
arboreal and pruned
inside a world that’s really
anything but floral.

June 26th, 2017
Tippet Alley

May 11th, 12th, 2023