Of course I know I am going to die
I know it the same way I know
the sun is dying, too. This is a fact,
that feels far away. All the same,
I carry it with me today as I notice
how the new summer growth
on the spruce is startlingly blue.
And the river, low and clear, wears a shimmer
in its song. Every flower in the bed
is fully in blossom, and the meadows
are lush and green. I know they will die,
as I will die, though all of us seem so wildly
alive in this moment, especially the bindweed
I pull from the garden as if
there will be a tomorrow
with plants that need space to grow.
I speak to the reaching tendrils of beans
in hopes of a harvest,
though there are, as of yet, no white blooms.
I tell them frost will come soon.
When Donna’s letter arrives on my screen,
I am just stepping in from the garden.
It was unexpected, she says.
In her letter, I swallow a hint of what else
is as real as the green all around,
and in me ripens a deeper hint of blue,
a hue that reframes so tenderly
these fleet shades of the living.