The last day the temperature rose
above 105, the Persian carpet zinnia
wilted its last time. It quit.
That evening, the wind blew
in from the west, and the next
day, we barely sweat.
The marigold bloomed.
Then heat returned.
One of my students confessed
she’d dropped poetry class
three times. This term, she stuck
it out, composing a poem
for her high school English
teacher, which his family read,
In Memory Of.
A newly hatched lizard
munches the dried blossoms
on the zinnia’s last
branches, and I decide
I want to be here, after all,
come spring, to see how big
he’s grown.
I’ll cover the tenderest
plants when frost comes.
I’ll stand with bare arms
until goosebumps form.
I’ll stay. I’ll stay after all.
And in next summer’s heat,
I won’t plant zinnias.
