MARY ARDERY
Decade of Daisy Spring in Indiana and it’s hotter than usual, bedroom blinds drawn to keep the house cool. Daisy follows me from room to room, relieved when I finally sit at my desk and she can settle at my feet. Soon, it will be the longest day of the year. Soon, she will be ten. She’s a big dog, an old ten. She doesn’t know what she’s doing when she tramples the sunflower sprouts. Our gentle giant squashing the pumpkins, the peppers. We don’t know either. It’s our first time gardening. First spring in this house. A happy surprise, watching the yard bloom. We’ve reaped the rewards of the old owner’s labor. How did he tend the trumpet vine to wind all byzantine through the pergola? How did he curb the bunnies’ appetite for perennials? Yesterday through the window, I watched you kneeling in the dirt weeding, the dog nearby on her back, rolling in the grass. The decade of Daisy. I was standing at the kitchen sink, damp sponge in my hand. Wondering how we got this lucky. Waiting for the water to warm.