All in its own time, the foxglove
blooms, one of many seeds sewn
late in this petite garden—
never having had the chance
to greet the forsythia,
but that’s the way it always is.

All on their own, the rainbows
of zinnias and bright violet bee balms
fed the bees—the bees who buzzed
life into this world— while we leaned
into chairs and goals— alliterated,
altered, dreamt poetic lines of hopes
and despairs of our world—

All in our own creative joy
and inspirations— but in June,
not all in and of itself,
not all alone, we’ve bloomed
bouquets—  All in this garden
of diverse scents and florals,
all in our own time,
yet all together, whole.