The sky a delft blue—
just the day I’ve waited for—
the warmth of the sun falling
on my shoulders like a down comforter.
I see to the tasks of husbandry,
edging a length of the garden
as precisely as a rolled hem,
as if industry alone could fix
what time will undo.
Like the gown I once stitched,
languishing in a closet of clothes
I can no longer wear,
horticulture knows but a brief
season. My hands still
reach for a field of flowers—
as if their freshness never paled
or felt the chill of winter.
Linda M. Fischer’s poetry is widely published in the small press. Active for many years with the Mad Poets Society and nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize, she has published two collections of her work, Raccoon Afternoons and Glory. She lives in Swarthmore; her website is lindamfischer.com.