Camellias brown: they’ve just survived their winter burn.
I cut back damaged branches. The blooms curl close, they wait.
I pace the garden while you wander free. It darkens;
the wall of brick grows blood-red dim as shadows wait.
Alone, I sculpt the bed, a solitary curve,
trace your form in lounges, in planes that will not wait.
This earth conceals the cables that bind us as we talk,
and signals fill the cloud, forever made to wait
for hearts that must be watered, agitations pruned.
Our garden runs to riot as I weed and wait.
I’ve scraped the stones and gathered up the leaves. How long,
how long do you expect me to keep still and wait?
I scratch a sign across the bricks, a ragged nail
and scuffed-up boot, just tapping out the time I wait.
Small piles of burning leaves send smoke up to the sky.
A lily swells with sun and seed. In stillness, she must wait.
Susan de Sola
Susan de Sola is an American poet living in the Netherlands. Her poetry has appeared in The Hudson Review, The Hopkins Review, The Dark Horse, River Styx and many other publications.