Honeysuckles tap soil
almost anywhere, junkyard
shrubs, able-rooted, attaching
through rock or sand. From
Evanston to Omaha, their red fish
roe berries border plots
of zoysia, buffalo, the family portion.
Lilacs go slowly, their old lady wigs
curling to beige crust; roses might
develop, but die in extreme weather.
Depend on the honeysuckle
to maintain where others falter . . .
You were never afraid of the dark, never afraid of each object resolving itself, vanishing into night's good sleeve, benign magic the world performed for you at sundown. You admired the young shepherdess tending sheep at the base of your lamp, coaxing her flock into evening's invisible pen. You wanted the world quiet. Even then, you looked forward to all things shutting their many mouths, interim in the revolving puzzle of light.
Scent of an eighth-grader's
cologne, they strong-arm other shrubs,
are used primarily for husbandry.
Honeysuckles provide cheap
borders, hide chain-link fences.