-This poem reflects on wilted zinnias in high summer, where beauty endures strain, bends under heat, and finds renewal again in evening relief.
By late day in the garden heat,
their heads begin to bow a little,
petals still bright with orange and rose,
but tired at the edge of noon.
The stems hold on through dust and light,
through hours too long without a cloud,
and all their color seems to speak,
of beauty asked to bear too much.
No failure lives in this small bend,
just summer written into bloom,
the cost of standing open there,
through all the fierce attention of the sun.
And still by dusk they lift again,
with water, shade, and evening air,
as if the garden knows by heart,
how weariness can turn to grace.