The chair awaits, thinks,
“I’m hopeful, useful, and now”
and that’s a good foundation surely.
The wicker then leans over
in its other corner solitutude
and less tended remembrance.
It reflects the chatter, the laughter,
the planters, the tenders, the unexpected
combinations; conversations homespun
as swaying exotic grasses.
That was somehow then.
The chair sits, recalls now
on how once created,
ever such a garden of like minded buds
was left behind unattended,
how we could still share the flowers.
