by Michael P. Garofalo

[Guest guest]

Crape myrtle, brilliant red, bursting forth;

Hiding the garden.

Some days, only the Garden, entire, serene;

Yet, hiding from sight, shy, single plants.

Seeing Both, seldom, but as One:

Sweat poured from my startled brow,

Dripping on the dry earth,

And all became Sunshine

And shadows of surprise unraveling.