February 24, 2025The Sadness of Morning Glories Out of Season
Why do their wilted vines still cling to walls,
to porch supports, to trellises? So dry
and desiccated, it seems that they should fall
back in the dirt. The seasons slide on by,
winter to spring, and the tattered flags
of leaves and empty sepals hold their own,
until some human intervention drags
them down or brand-new growth from seeds self-sown
begins its reign. But this is a poem about grief,
the grief of things that hold on past their time,
as if all times were well defined. The sleep
of flowers produces wistfulness that climbs
around the spine and twists into the mind,
usurping thoughts and leaving ghosts behind.
from #86 – Winter 2024