Peonies now bow low to the ground,
petals blown apart and dissolving
back into earth after each rainfall.
Meanwhile, the woodpecker knocks
on the oak door of this summer day,
demanding to be let in. Meanwhile,
the day lily blooms a month early,
orange velvet dusted with a trail
of pollen left by some hurried bee.
And what will we leave behind here
when we move on to the nectar
of some other life? I just want to be
remembered as the pond recalls
the shimmer of noon sun, still holds
those particles inside its body
as we leap from the dock at dusk.
—James Crews
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