Don’t water them
when the sun is shining
the woman who sold them
said—they don’t like it.
And so it is I learned a garden rests
but does not sleep:
the Munstead clan, and Honorine Jobert,
Zephirine, Caroline de Testout and company
lie about, scent- 
splashed in the moonlight
that has no heat; finally
they are alone
rid of bees and lovemaking
perhaps thirsty—

Perhaps
lavender swoons
along the hard stems, each flower shivering
when a bee enters, 
tiring.

Perhaps
a tree eyes the rose climbing, twining, 
shining amongst its leaves,
holding still,
so long;
perhaps the breeze is beckoned to
anthropomorphically.

Though we keep trying,
who
of us
has the words
for a nighttime garden?

Besides rest winding down
an August evening,
what other way 
for redistribution of wealth
but undercover 
vegetative
silence?

© 2010 by Grace Hughes Chappell.
Used with the author’s permission.