These Hazy Days

Annual

Friday evening, summer sounds

the heady scent of honeysuckle and sunlight

unidentifiable weeds tossing their heads in the wind.

Annual, you would know their name.

You would tie your hair back and

tend to the garden with gentle hands.

From the window I'd catch glimpses

of your shape, draped in bright cloth,

a bird of pink and yellow plumage

flitting among the plums and pears.

You'd wade through tides of mint,

of lemonbalm, of lamb's ear.

You'd look luminous in the late light.

I'm glad I had time to love you, Annual.

I hope your new neighbors are kind,

your new yard awash with sun,

your desert grasses taller.

I hope she loves you, and you her.

I hope you're her perennial.