In the far backyard
a patch of wildflowers
spreads perennially –
Bellflowers, I think,
Peach-Leaved Fairy Bells
(I looked them up),
but they don’t come
when I call them in.
I suppose some scrub-jay
dropped them here
to bring me a bit of cheer
giving up beer beyond Lent.
The flowers don’t need me
to tend or water them,
in June, tall and prolific,
invulnerable. Late Fall,
they’ll droop adrunk,
in the pubside gutter.
Wilderness inspired,
I buy a big bag of seeds
at Bi-Mart in early Spring,
but of a google broadcast,
only a few sprouted,
and not as proudly
as the Petticoat Bellflowers.
Maybe the bluebirds
picked up those seeds,
and even now drop them,
one by one, somewhere
over a distant biege sea.
The Coming of the Toads 