Cleome
She doesn’t recall
her April self
out here, poking the seeds in.
Maybe she knew
that she would need
this pink outburst of happy.
Her August self decides to smile back.
The joy of this pink missive has tipped her mood,
and steered her stubborn rowboat
back to sun on gentle water.
Most of the time she avoids
thinking about her new status,
of the harsh solitude ahead of her.
Tiny sparks of good things (seeds taking root)
can unmoor that fragile scaffolding.
She would have enjoyed this more, before.
She would have shared it.
She could have been glad.
Alongside the pangs of regret
stand these insane seed pods,
flung wide like triumphant gymnasts.
So she lends them a little room.
Because yesterday would have been too soon.
But today the cleome has won.
JMS
