Not ready

Queen Anne’s lace spread across the meadow
like our grandmother’s tablecloth.
Blue chicory and orange lilies
bloomed like companions by the fence.
Dark and rusty spires of dock seed
reached upward, stubborn, strong and brittle.
First blooms of purple loosestrife
whispered summer’s passing.
Goldenrod stood waiting, ready to tell of summer’s end.

The chokecherries
were ripening, but not ready.

I didn’t know then.

I didn’t know then that you were gone.

I didn’t know then that you were almost two days gone.

Now I watch the leaves of the potted hibiscus
shudder in the suffocating summer air.
Its bold red flowers open wide like mouths.
At night, the blossoms close back into themselves,
and in the morning, I find them lying on the ground,

face down, not breathing.

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This poem is dedicated to my brother Doug Farmer who passed away very suddenly on July 18, 2026. Dear brother you have left a hole in my heart that will never be filled. Here is Doug’s obituary.

May these words bring truth and healing
through open hands and hearts. And then,
let it flow back into our Mother Earth
for the love of all her beings.