What would I incise
On the hot brick wall
Against my back
Where I spend so many hours sitting
To watch the garden in thrall
To bare winter dirt or curling cotyledons
Fragile, inevitable, strong
What would I say to the seedlings
As they stretch to the steady sun
Til they bear fruit, harvest, die
How do I describe in the warm brick
The anticipation that is a garden
Both the life and the death
Just this:
Whether the coming is warmth or snow
That May turns to November
Then turns again to May,
We may forget, but the flowers know
Late to the dverse prompt of 2/13/24: an inscription
https://dversepoets.com/2024/02/13/poetics-its-written-in-stone/
Xanku 
Gorgeous, Alexandra. Indeed, the flowers know.
BTW, I got the chapbook. THANK YOU. Still trying to find time to read it. Will write more after I do ❤
“The flowers know” — Love that! The repetition of the hot/warm brick of the garden wall or persona waiting to be inscribed or “in thrall” and the garden itself waiting to be reborn is such an intriguing, indeed, marvelous dichotomy. Brilliant. Better late than never, Xan, and this poem was worth waiting for. Thanks for joining in the prompt. 💖
It was such a good prompt– one of those that just stayed with me.
Aww thanks, Xan, appreciate that!