I confess I killed the blanket flower,
snuffed out its autumnal blossoms
petaled in hues of mustard and rust,
brought from the nursery fully quick
but now dead brown out by the walk.
It was not an act of willful murder,
and yet I acknowledge herbicide
by negligence: I know that it handled
its tangled roots much too roughly,
knew even then I was confining them
in too small a pot, the only one I had,
bigger than the nursery container,
but still, I left them no room to stretch
and thrive, unwilling to make the minor
sacrifice of returning to the store
to pay the higher price for a larger pot
and lug home the heavier clay. And
then I fear I might have overwatered
the poor thing as well. Harboring yet
the faintest hope of its resurrection,
I can’t just throw it heartlessly away,
even knowing that the cause is all
but lost. I regret my careless actions
and wish that I could make amends,
but I know a jury of seasoned gardeners
would find me guilty in two minutes.
Copyright 2015
T. Allen Culpepper
