If this isn’t nice...
at the garden by the woods,
Mr. Vonnegut.

It’s nearly midyear
and the zinnias keep coming,
I can’t know their depth.

My zinnia grows
regardless, regardless, re
gardless, regardless.

Zinnias and pinks
lining forgotten walkways,
leading to closed doors.

Commemorating
the things I'm afraid to lose—
the small and big loves.

The gifts of living:
to write poems every day,
to remember it.

Zinnia, nasturtium,
marigolds from last year's seeds,
four round dianthus.