Four O' Clocks

She started them from seed,
ordered from catalogues that choke
off a mailbox in December
while trying to delude you
about the inevitability of spring.

Now, these sweet-scented ones
that she considers as dear
as her own grown children,
grow round-faced and full
in the summer Iowa sun.

They manage to sprout
unnanounced across
the garden and take up
residence in furrows of
the field far from the tyranny

of trees. Later in the day,
perhaps around four,
she will walk down
to the mailbox
at the bottom of the drive,

her cane clicking
against recalcitrant stones.
She’ll check for letters
that never seem to arrive,
look in on the progress
of marigolds in a milk can,
their necks straining to see
the sky, and worry about
when winter will catch them
all leaning the wrong way.