Friday, September 24, 2010


End of August. Heat
like a tent over
John's garden. And some things
have the nerve to be getting started,
clusters of tomatoes, stands
of late lilies--optimism
of the great stalks--imperial
gold and silver: but why
start anything
so close to the end?
Tomatoes that will never ripen, lilies
winter will kill, that won't
come back in spring. Or
are you thinking
I spend too much time
looking ahead, like
an old woman wearing
sweaters in summer;
are you saying I can
flourish, having
no hope
of enduring? Blaze of the red cheek, glory
of the open throat, white,
spotted with crimson.

Louise Gluck
from The Wild Iris

(photo credit)


  1. I simply adore this poem. I read it first when it came up on Google Reader when you posted it. And I had to come back and read again.


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