Yes, I see the blossom illuminated
Between sunlight and shade;
I can even see the crenulated
Line they have made
Between late and high summer
And the evening’s waiting shade.
It is a Rose of Sharon, lavender and fair,
Hibiscus syriaca, a northern guest,
As if gracing some maiden’s hair.
Nearby Lilies dying of strange pests
Divert my vague attention to their neighbor
In the post-monsoonal air.
Down your blossoms weary with days of rain,
Drag low on the heavy boughs.
I have let them grow too high; they are vain!
Sending out showy blooms,
Into the sodden air, yet flimsy and thin,
Fit only for vases in rooms.