Late Blooming

You come from that place where Queen Anne’s lace and milk thistle grow thick on the creek bank behind the house. Black-eyed Susans, opened to the sky, sway strong and tall in the wind. A dogwood blooms; in remembrance of friends gone. And the dust gathers heavy over that forgotten place. My heart closed up like a daylily at moonrise. And I, a late blooming rose, far into an Indian summer. You left; then I— left and shook the dust not just from feet, but hair, skin, bones. It collected deep inside, though. As you did. We never said goodbye. © stephanie pepper, 2013