The dahlias have been slow to bloom with the changing weather, the alternating hot and cool with the continuing dryness, despite my watering. We are seeing more recently. They continue to amaze.
This is what we have been doing with them.
The Dahlias
By now the fields are overgrown,
most ironweed and parsnip have turned black,
even the closed cabinet doors milk pods
have burst open, spilling their shucked silk
into the day. I wear a coat
and remember August, those nights
filled with moths that like fireworks
put on a show at our window,
circled the lights like monks in meditation.
At every new cycle, I miss the one
now gone. I am never happy and have
no excuse not to love the dying
season, the growing season, the season of sleep.
That is to say, to love it while it is
happening. But what of the fall dahlias
that like bodices planets float above
their roots and leaves?Surely they contain all
the colors of our universe, They must love
the cooler days, the beginning
of a time of rest, less forced display.
Take it easy I will say. But the wind
has something else in mind.
That might perform a roundelay
or the danse macabre. In time
we all have bones, our eyeholes hollowed
and our skeletons clattering like chimes.
Didi Jackson
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