The Garden of Abandoned Places
Outside, the weather is hot.
Southern hot, humid,
not at all the Vermont coolness you have come to love.
The roses and phlox are in bloom,
and the air is fragrant.
It seems it is never the season you expected.
Calendars and history have become useless
and you simply live the weather you are given,
rediscovering your sense of contentment
that has nothing to do with circumstance or age.
You breathe in the perfume.
You smile at the delicate colors.
Fragile, both of them.
and yet, eternal. Even in the gardens
of abandoned places, they emerge each spring
About this poem
I have a deep love for abandoned places and often find myself wandering through old houses, factories, and other buildings with my camera. One of the things that I love the most are the gardens. Abandoned, overgrown, they somehow still persist.
I have a weakness for people in the same way.