A single milkweed plant has sprung
from seeds scattered last fall.
I almost fancy myself a gardener,
except that so much potential
died with those plants that didn’t grow.
A door left open says “forgiven”,
the only word not worn away
from the top of a gravestone
where sumac’s summer green
reveals the art of dying.
This is a reprint of work originally published in The A3 Review.
Meg Freer grew up in Montana and now teaches piano in Kingston, Ontario, where she enjoys taking photos outdoors and wishes she had more time for writing poetry. Her prose, photos, and poems have won awards in North America and overseas, and have been published in anthologies and journals such as Ruminate, Juniper, Vallum: Contemporary Poetry, Arc Poetry, Eastern Iowa Review, and borrowed solace.