And, this afternoon, when
the bleached sun is burnished gold,
all the wrong people will gather
to forage in the garden, like squirrels,
for old chestnuts of simplicity, and
the bitter acorns from which resilience
springs. Predictably, they will come up
empty-handed and stand, mumbling,
in groups of three and four
before retiring to an elegant pergola,
like so many overripe summer
fruits piled into a sticky brass bowl
in a sunny spot.
(c) 2014, by Hannah Six
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