The bulbs that sat for weeks inside a box,
Pale sprouts that sprouted there inside their bags,
Into the earth their roots I finally drag;
Send shoots through mulch, around my buried rocks.
A diagram that shipped with them I’ve read
For where goes what; I’ve staked a sign for each
And labelled each a letter for to teach
My future self where once my study led
(Although the big one, plant “A,” I have moved
Across the map to place it in the sun.)
A photo of the paper map, I’ve one;
So names to letters years hence I can prove.
The map, recorded, bravely I have tossed.
My daughter helped me planting, in her way.
God knows next year the photo will be lost.
What plants are these, she’ll ask. And who can say?
If I was Robert Frost I would have included some of the flowers’ names in this poem. Emerald Pink Carpet Phlox. Autumn Joy Sedum. Goblin Gaillardia. If they actually grow into anything I’ll dignify them with a new one that names names.
Here’s the photo of the diagram:
Anyway, thanks for reading.
This is Phil.