A Garden Bench in Early Spring
by William Ogden Haynes
Walking through the back yard, I gather the scattered
dry sticks from one more winter. I inspect the perennials,
shocked from the cold, everything above ground faded
brown. And as I clip off the dead fronds, I know that
life persists in the bulb beneath. These plants have
many more lives than a cat, and will no doubt outlast me.
The weeds, often the first to emerge, wait patiently
under the dead autumn leaves to organize their annual
takeover of the garden. Soon, daffodils will be rising
from their beds, and the greening trees will re-form
a canopy over the yard as they have done for decades.
And then there is the garden bench, frail with rust,
riding a downward spiral, waiting for the wire brush
and Rust-oleum, so it can last another season. But
eventually, it will be cast into the street after I am
no more. I’m not a perennial. I never sink into the
ebb and flow of dormancy and regeneration. I am
built more like the bench, always there, through
all the seasons, flourishing for as long as I can,
but steadily deteriorating. For unlike the perennials,
once I leave this life, I will never come back to it again.
dry sticks from one more winter. I inspect the perennials,
shocked from the cold, everything above ground faded
brown. And as I clip off the dead fronds, I know that
life persists in the bulb beneath. These plants have
many more lives than a cat, and will no doubt outlast me.
The weeds, often the first to emerge, wait patiently
under the dead autumn leaves to organize their annual
takeover of the garden. Soon, daffodils will be rising
from their beds, and the greening trees will re-form
a canopy over the yard as they have done for decades.
And then there is the garden bench, frail with rust,
riding a downward spiral, waiting for the wire brush
and Rust-oleum, so it can last another season. But
eventually, it will be cast into the street after I am
no more. I’m not a perennial. I never sink into the
ebb and flow of dormancy and regeneration. I am
built more like the bench, always there, through
all the seasons, flourishing for as long as I can,
but steadily deteriorating. For unlike the perennials,
once I leave this life, I will never come back to it again.
William Ogden Haynes is a poet and author of short fiction from Alabama who was born in Michigan. He has published seven collections of poetry (Points of Interest, Uncommon Pursuits, Remnants, Stories in Stained Glass, Carvings, Going South and Contemplations) and one book of short stories (Youthful Indiscretions) all available on Amazon.com. Approximately 200 of his poems and short stories have appeared in literary journals and his work is frequently anthologized. Visit him online at www.williamogdenhaynes.com.