Three weeks every summerthree houses down for about twenty-five feeta smell envelops me when I walk the dogs.Slowly, I breath it in, thinking, this, this,this is perfection. I should plant itin my yard, create my own privateoasis to bask in the succulent scent,but I am trying to replaceall of the boxwoods with hydrangeasand last year we lost one—a hydrangea,the boxwoods survive anything: heat, humidity,hurricanes, blizzards. And at the side of thegarage, Asian lilacs replace tiger lilies.The lilies are beautiful when they bloombut they remind me of Michiganroadsides where they volunteeron state property and when they growtoo high grim men riding machinesmow them down on lazy summer daysfor safety. It makes me sad so I plantspring lilacs though it may take a full decadebefore they are a wall of shrubsthick and…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, September/October 2022