I nodded off in the Adirondack chair
in our backyard one afternoon and
awoke to an oasis of pinks and purples,
greens and blues, the latest offspring
of my gardener wife, a minor nature
deity whose power to give life lies
within the modest rectangle of our
yard, where she nurtures phlox,
columbine and dianthus as their
sanguine siblings, bee balm and
Indian pink, await their birth.