Planting Bulbs In The Front Yard

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.