The luxury of two benches in my garden
gives me a seat to contemplate the other,
nestled between astilbe and hosta,
empty in the shade-dappled sun.
It faces the jade-green birdbath
tall among geraniums,
sun glinting on the rippling water,
framing leaves backlighted in the rising sun.
The flagstone path travelling
between bath and bench
widens into a nook,
inviting the one who visits to linger
to soak the warm sunlight on bare arms
and feel the sturdy security of the garden bench,
away from the news
the floor in need of a broom,
the meals in need of a cook.
Cotton clouds scudding in the blue sky above,
golden sun on foxglove and columbine, and green, green
froth of fresh foliage–
such rare jewel-days
join so few on the necklace of memory.