This time of year we swarm
the nursery just outside of town.
Tomato plants of course,
something for the table.
But marigolds, petunias, zinnias?
A little color in July
and they’re history come fall.
Seventeen ninety eight she says.
I hand her two tens
and carry a tray of green
absurdities to the car.
Cherubim with flaming swords
be damned.
I’m going back to that garden.
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