The Mallow Leans toward the Sun
by Helen Marie Casey
Songs of cicadas overwhelm silence until even the whispers
of trees grow inaudible. Beneath ancient canopies,
mottled oaks shake tired leaves, butterflies sail into and out of
darkest shadows. I am the one who slakes the thirst
of daisies, lilies, catmint. The chipmunk, the squirrel,
and the crow gossip. Impatiens would like to dominate. Weeds,
in wild abandon, shrug. Asters rise, too common for notice.
Sundrops, yellow luster out of season now, straggle and grow limp.
The Japanese maple, silent as a queen, keeps its purple secrets.
“The Mallow Leans toward the Sun” is excerpted with permission from Casey’s longer work titled “Maybe an Iris.”
Helen Marie Casey has lived in Sudbury, Massachusetts, for 35 years and has learned to love New England's seasons and heritage with an unanticipated passion. Her chapbooks include Fragrance Upon His Lips, a series of poems about Joan of Arc, and Inconsiderate Madness, a series of poems about Mary Dyer. She has also written a biography about one of Sudbury's artists, My Dear Girl: The Art of Florence Hosmer.