Stems of long nasturtiums catch my foot;
For from the red brick path I let it slip.
And spiders fill the long neglected hut.
I peer though windows and regain my grip.
The yellow flowers are eaten with the leaves.
Mixed with oil and lemon they taste good.
Yet a maternal gardener in me grieves
For I have watched them since they were in bud.
The truth that I evade again explodes
That little buds and flowers will have to die.
And even as these flowers grow more bold
They’re still a crop, and so with grief I cry.
Yet life is process and goes on and on….
Even when particular loves are gone
How my heart sings 