For Whatever Reason

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For whatever reason, the hydrangeas
by the porch are blooming again. All day long,
from inside, I feel them trying to open,
all of them white and yellow, all of them tender
and frail; the rain falling and then settling,
all of them with their faces turned down.

We planted all weekend that year and waited,
through hard rain and a late freeze,
for this, for them to open toward us in bloom.

What we never knew about them then
was that even the flowers themselves
don’t know their color before they bloom.
For whatever reason, the soil decides it,
the chemistry of color hidden under
the earth, a compound hard with promise.

We didn’t know then that something
as simple as sand, as simple as wind,
could change them; that hydrangeas themselves
are vulnerable to almost anything.

And now we know that nothing,
not even the earth, not even water,
is as simple as we want.

Now, this time, you have gone,
and for whatever reason the hydrangeas
are in bloom again, and for now the rain has stopped.
From inside, I feel the whole earth lifting,
and imagine you somehow here, still
kneeling in the yard, the new season
laid over the two of us like petals.