For Next Year
Is it habit or hope
that compels us to the garden
each October, to the spent
heads of cosmos, marigold
and zinnias, patiently plucking
the dried seeds into a brown bag?
A wise old gardener showed
me the trick, how to pry
those papery flecks
from their nested pods,
store them in a cool dark spot,
safe from winter's touch.
Next spring, I'll fling them
into the garden, then wait
for the haphazard pattern
of summer to stir awake
their slumbering, brilliant blooms.
