Hydrangea

Thick in the flesh of the garden,
the spade holed the earth
for the new arrival.

We stuck it in the corner
of the yard by the pile
of rocks, the carcass  

of the old tarpaulin,
like a band-aid over
the greying summer. 

Such faith you had
in the roots, the holding
power of soft earth. 

But the wind up and overed
walls, throughed hedges,
savaging nettles, bog cotton,  

tossing elderflower confetti
in the air. Planted, the young
flower bent double  

with the weather, struggled
to keep its arms aloft, purple Moses
weary with heavy droplets

swept inland from the sea.
Such faith you had
in the new hydrangea, 

and other things
brought to places they
normally wouldn’t be.

DANIEL JOHNSON

Daniel Johnson is a writer from New Jersey living in Burlington, Vermont. He’s a graduate of the MA in Creative Writing at University College Cork. His work has appeared in journals such as Southword, TIMBER, Reed Magazine, and the Honest Ulsterman. He’s on social media @djohnsonwrites.