Angela Cummings

Near Misses

First blossom today, taking center court as it
floats over the cosmic, kaleidoscopic carp,
announcing that all is not lost: the great flame
of summer, lights this lily’s blushing cup.
His toil was not for nothing – I must tell him that.
The maple, mondo, and sumac each sway and retract,
reflecting the moves of his craft and his burden.
Tonight, I am a witness to this lavish
scene of a broken heart bending.
When I cannot love, he loves the dirt instead.
Greedy brown birds gorge on unripe Rainiers
while I light a cigarette, toast the fans
of the smoke tree, and say “We are smoking!”
But no one hears; is here.
Maybe all great gardens are born from such near misses.