They're Gone. Dead. Flopping forlornly in the heat of the day.
They used to be sweet. Beautiful.
Always comparing themselves to roses.
Being admired on cloudy days.
And on sunny days.
Then the Rudbekia appeared. Tough as nails. Bright and sturdy.
Once they were stuffed into jars.
While Spencer snored.
Or sat on the fence under the grapes. He would sniff.
But now the garden's sagging.
Like compost bags overflowing with dead vines.
Now, only Cordelia can compare herself to the sun.
And nod off to sleep behind the fence.
And hide from Smokey. Who is such an imp.
The roses are still beautiful.
But the sweet peas sag and slop with aphids, bugs and torn stems.
Last of the garden sunflowers sit on the gate.
Some pots survive. But their days are numbered.
Only the Rhodochiton does well. So much is gone.
The pots will meet their maker . Soon. But not yet.
The Rudbekia laughs and laughs. It will be king now.
The bag swallow up what is left. Like a big gaping maw.
Ivy geraniums hold their own. But soon they will be gone.
The last of the blooms strive to stay upright.
But they too. Alas. Are gone. Trampled.
Crumpled. Washed away. Gone.
The last of the sweet peas beg to live. But it's too late.
The garden is drying . Getting ready for fall.
And only the pods are left. Seeds to be gathered. Aliens. Gone.
Till next year. When once again sweet peas will live long. And prosper.
