Finding Accommodation Among the Marigolds
Turned earth,
a moist scoop in the palm,
elevated,
its winter breath exhales a warm
musk, natural incense
without fire,
both composition and decomposition
Laid out for planting, the marigolds,
two ragged green lines
anticipating their wells
troweled fresh in a ragged fashion.
Set firm and deep,
sandy desert tamped around the root ball,
the flowers appear stressed,
limpness pervades the yellow petals,
At the end of the long bed a man
sights down rows,
sees nothing but disorder,
a mini equation in chaos theory,
where his training demands ordered
columns of integers.
Toward the middle of the bed
she hums, putters
making depressions around each plant
for watering.
Instinct comes on strong
for a chalk line above replanting,
but he has too often
made unprofitable investments in being right.
He uncoils the hose,
lays it length out in undulations
which pull straight under water pressure
and his sure hand and eye.
-- Bill Cowee