Perennial Poem by Matthew Zeller

A smile as gently the robin sings,
perched, watching me give a garden tend.
He laughed when sunken footprints found,
the telling clues of stolen hosta blooms,
look that of tulips taken months ago
and culprits both, the stealthy, hungry doe.

I stood once hearty as the Russian sage;
stout, sturdy, always reaching upward,
a rock for others to break themselves against.
The thing that always struck me about her,
a richness. Defined. Certain. Colorful.
The salvia brings her to mind,
but long she passed and all I have is age
unless I count my little, feathered friend
and a garden left to tend.

So now I mostly move the dirt around,
remember days when I could freely bend
the Earth to me and other bygone things.
I thought it sometimes moving me,
though other times, I swear, it shoved,
stole the things that will never be,
lost me in the passing years, standing still
to watch perennials bloom, never rushed
but either way, a garden left to till
with a woman missed and always loved.