Vera stopped at the flower called fireweed
three fireweed in that old field year after year
I watch from the kitchen window I wonder
when the earth is a repository of seed a seed bank a
bed where seed rest comfortably some say for years
waiting for the nudge from weather and light year after
year there are three fireweed no more no less then
Vera disappeared into the woods and our dog Bear
followed her I said to myself WORK! and walked
east toward the far sunny haze of Smarts Mountain down
into the swale which had gathered vervain boneset and
meadowsweet where were the beginnings of those late
asters that should have started their leaves toward
blue and lavender September still we are the gardeners
of this world and often talk about giving wildness
its chance it’s I who cut the field too late too
early right on time and therefore out of the earth which
is a darkness of timed seed and waiting root the sunlight
chose vervain jewelweed boneset just beyond
our woodchuck-argued garden a great nation of ants
has lived for fifteen years in a high sandy anthill
which I honor with looking and looking and never disrupt
(nor have I learned their lesson of stubborn industry)
they ask nothing except to be not bothered and I personally
agree though it is my nation that has refined sugar
in bowls of sugar far from their sandy home I’ve often
found them drunk and bathing