the wild garden

all the flowers in the wild garden

have yielded their spirits to autumn’s chill

and become dry brown ghosts, their seeds

falling out of cracked heads and cones

down to the hardening ground in hopes

that something will take root for spring

they don’t know that some fine day

we plan to strip the soil bare and start again

enlarging the borders and ordering the brilliant chaos

for now, fennel is all that remains greening

its feathery fronds sprawling from stalks knocked askew

and the bulbs growing vast against the cold

perhaps tomorrow i will dig them up

and we will feast like swallowtail caterpillars in summer