The Garden Party
“The Garden Party”
I didn’t expect such fanfare
when I stepped off the patio
and into the side garden,
coffee in hand, still in socks.
But there it was—
Sweet Alyssum throwing itself
into the late morning sun
like popcorn erupting in slow motion,
a jittery chorus of soft white confetti,
each floret mid-skip,
mid-curtsy, mid-cartwheel.
It had clearly been going on for hours—
this revelry, this floral hootenanny—
and I, the latecomer,
still holding the last bite of breakfast,
was greeted not with suspicion,
but with the ease reserved
for old friends
or someone who brought bruschetta
to the buffet table.
I tucked the plate between
a tub of spicy hummus
and a bowl of cherry tomatoes
that had, by the looks of it,
been flirting with the parsley.
Somewhere between the snapdragons
and the dill, a bee
dipped and twirled like an aunt
who’s had just enough prosecco
to command the dance floor.
I stayed longer than I meant to.
Didn’t speak much.
But it was nice,
to be included
in such a reckless
and fragrant
celebration.