It’s too late.
The ink has dried.
The umbrella left irrevocably

mangled. The vines are climbing
higher than anyone would dare
measure. The arbor patinaed.

The outdoor rooms awash in lavender
this time of year. The charcoal
gray crushed stone

paths

that form inner rectangles
give the illusion
of containing everything I fear

losing

in clean compartments.
It’s too late. I cannot hold it
together. Cultivated

plants escape into the wild
overnight. I must learn
to embrace all that whirls

beyond this fisheye view.