I live in a brick ranch that I inherited
from my parents. French doors in the
dining room lead to a mostly neglected
garden. I’m not officially an insomniac,
but there are nights when I reach for sleep
that is beyond my grasp, so I prowl the garden.
Tonight is such a night. Maybe I went
to bed too early. I’ve knotted my bed
clothes from restless, constant movement.
When I give up, it’s 4 a.m., and I traipse
to the garden, weary from attempting to sleep.
Fireflies light my way into the simmering heat
left over from a torrid, July day. It’s muggy
with moonlight, not quite dark. Air feels damp,
heavy, clinging to my skin like a wet sheet.
Through pre-dawn silence I hear the click-clack
from a train miles away. I follow large,
moss-covered, limestone pavers that are uneven
and heave out of the earth. The stone path leads
to a ceramic birdbath filled with dark, still water.
Along the way, broad-leafed hostas look like shields,
weighed down by thick, silver beads of dew.
The centerpiece, beyond the birdbath, is a sundial
on a concrete pedestal, its shadow invisible because
sun hasn’t risen, making it a clock with no hands.
Near the sundial, a bed of White O’Hara roses thrives,
their fragrance permeating the space around them.
Yet, my garden feels as if it’s been holding its breath
for decades, waiting for me to take a deeper interest
and revitalize the entire milieu, but I am old, and
the decaying beauty of these grounds suits me,
both of us graceful in our surrender to time.
