Three old guys are standing in the rain
outside the post office on the West Coast Road.
I used to know their names.
They talk about the weather, friends who have died,
their latest complaints.
One of them holds a bouquet
of odd orange flowers and what seems
to be part of a palm tree.
Maybe it’s his wife’s birthday
that he didn’t forget this year.
Yesterday, I held my own bouquet:
September’s last rhubarb,
so heavy with stalks and leaves
that I leaned when I held them.
Behind me the borage, the Peruvian lilies, California poppies
still bloom as I tip toward memory,
toward this autumnal equinox.
From Postcards from the Sky (Leaf Press, 2011).
Used with the author’s permission.