Instruction
Lynne McMahon
Hot, colicky, wallowy weather, the dog won’t lift his head for sticks or balls and the shade, such as it is, only fogs the mosquitoey verge of rock wall
built to keep the drainage dammed. The hour is hourless noon, destined to last. Flagstones buckle up the path in ankle-twisting imprecision, alabaster
cracks, and terra cotta, and even yarrow fries. Our clematis, planted in honor of Patrick Kavanagh, who Irishly called it leafy-with-love (the other names we’ve pondered
too—love-bind, virgin’s bower—as proof of Eros and fence climbing skills), ascends to the roof to scent our days and nights.... Still a thrill
in metaphor, but the flowers are dead. Only the rose and silver rock you found and planted upright in a special bed —quartz shaped by nature and gowned,
I swear, like the Virgin of Guadalupe—blooms in secret radiance, whatever pestilence or ruin, to say a gardener’s penance begins in June. Take up the watering can again. Resume.
