The Pink-Blue Zone

The day drifts into
the pink-blue zone
and I hold vigil
as dandelions and nettles
stand with their dignity
with purple bells
fake and merry
across the green holding
feathers in the wind
soon to be flattened
after the fence gets rattled
by the vixen as she flies
over with her bread
from Don two doors down
for her cubs as the brimstones
no longer fluorescent
or flapping in the sun
get carried away
with the tiny blues
and the woodpecker won’t
drum for a while now
but the garden
goes on

in a time
of its own.