Garden Grief

Already deer have pruned hosta
from which I had expected leaves
large enough to shade the world.

This will be a summer of sighs
and hurricanes, the Atlantic
coughing up the thickest vapors,

the Leeward Islands cringing.
These hosta would have spoken
a windy floral language

almost audible to people like me
willing to sit all day and listen.
Thunder will mock the absence

of those flapping leaves. Also
the lack of birdsong will goad
harsh winds from the east where

beaches erode to reveal the wreck
that once was civilization
before the great shame struck.

I shouldn’t be so troubled by
the vegetarian greed of deer.
I spray repellent on the many

surviving hosta, hoping their leaves
grow large enough to shield me
from my foolish little fears.

The chewed stumps regard me
with reproach. Why hadn’t I sprayed
this stinking repellent earlier?

A typical spring grimace
overlays this scene. I kneel
in the dirt and study its texture.

Everyone knows it’s really flesh,
but only under the greatest stress
are we willing to admit it.

WILLIAM DORESKI

William Doreski has published three critical studies and several collections of poetry. His work has appeared in many print and online journals. He has taught at Emerson College, Goddard College, Boston University, and Keene State College. His most recent books are Water Music and Stirring the Soup. His website is williamdoreski.blogspot.com.