Perennial

by Colleen Webster

I mark the bursting of bleeding hearts
in the backyard garden
by the seasons you have not seen them.

When you left the blooms hung
in withered folded delicate pinks
on feathered lobes of satin leaf.

You were not here for the autumn
browning, frost eventually drying
the life out of nearly desiccated stalks.

Through winter's waste landscape
the garden crouched empty in the wind.
Even the stones echoed death.

And now, another drought summer,
thin sticks wave dryly
next to the only green. In the fishpond

lilies, cattails, water willow, hyacinth
thrive even in the sun, roots steeped
in fertile mush. To see such life

I go out in the heat,
plunge my hand in,
feel what goes on.