She’s kneeling in the brackish odor
Of the garden mums.
Red-orange heads nod sage
Advice of acceptance and weathering.
Her overlarge sunglasses now tilted
Atop her head, lenses reflecting
Curdled gray clouds.
Under her knees, discarded weeds bleed
The same bruised green the sky
Has become.
A shriek and a clatter
Comes from behind where the house looms
Against the darkening day.
A rising wail of newly dead leaves
Sweeps sweated-matted hair
Tugs defeat puddled hands.
She hopes the sirens sound soon.
The waiting is the worst part.