Dusk in the garden deepens.
Soon, in the dark, peonies will
bow their heads, roses fold in
on themselves. We know
because that’s how the morning
finds them. Like Penelope they
undo the day’s stitch and bloom.
In the dead of night, do the thyme
bushes still release their perfume,
or hold it, like breath, until the
warmth of dawn revives them,
Till the dog barks?