The Joe Pye weeds are tall now,
rising almost over the top of my head.
In their centers, at last, I can see their buds,
still swaddled in leaves. I can almost feel
the energy feeding them, their whiskery petals
pushing toward the light, eager to unfold.
“Great job!” I tell them. “Keep going!”
I imagine the dusky pink of their blossoms,
buzzing with visiting bees who drink their fill.
“Keep going!” I say again. “You’re going to be
so beautiful and so loved!”