fine white strands
of mycelium reach
into the cells of the woody stalk
and hard husk of sunflower
Plague on the winds, in the air,
on our tongues in the midst of old conversations.
Everything seems to glow richer before first frost, a last hurrah before the ghostly breath passes over.
Sarah plants a butterfly bush
for the purple, nectar-rich splendor in a pot.
Hannah wants some pink extravagance
to beckon hummingbirds.
The garden was literally healing me. The low to mild depression I had been cycling in and out of started to break, and I felt lighter, happier, and more self-accepting.