Deadheading the Lobelia
5:45 of an August evening,
I sit on the patio,
the blue lobelia in my mother’s white ceramic pots
becoming sparse and leggy.
I should have pinched the blooms back days ago.
Now it’s uncertain if
the perfect periwinkle blossoms
will ever return.
Winter nights,
I dream of tubs of delicate lobelia,
clouds of blue heaven
flourishing in my mother’s creamy white pots
Sixty-nine last month,
Next year: 70
Next summer, I think, will be the summer of blessings
The pots will have tallied another year’s cracks and veins,
But a year’s patina can only make those indigo blooms more precious.
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