Everyone's in the Garden

Larkspur is a long gone neighbor
still present in carroty stalks,
blue stars. He matched iris
to columbine on a black palette,
gave pods to any who asked.
Lupine jumps from a thick business
envelope — the postman thinks dope.
A high school friend sends seed
from Bloomfield, Connecticut
where he moves sun-lovers to light. His
kids have grown up. He babies plants.
Passed away parents stay in garlic chives,
gay painted daisies, Summer Sweet musk.
There's rhubarb because they grew rhubarb.
There are pink and orange poppies because
poppy growers said, "Here, take a start."
First owners begin, dig peat moss
around a pink rose. Gifts of potted
lilies and mums settle in. A blossom
fanatic brings seedling clumps. Some
annuals stop. Others spend the winter
in compost, germinate again without
invitation, doing what all gardens
and gardeners do — spring up, fall
down. Rot. Die. Come back.