Summer Afternoon
blossoms on the red buckeye tree
droop detach fall they do this
every year and yet every year
I am surprised by dying
already my hands miss the way
I’ve cupped upturned faces
of petals marveled how
the bright red panicles
jutting from tall stems thrust their ruby
throats through foliage thirst
for the tongue of a bee to whisper
honeyed promises
of splendor eternal but what if
everything clung stubborn forever
unchanged can we really cherish
what cannot die
*
Cindy Buchanan grew up in Alaska, graduated from Gonzaga University, and lives in Seattle. Her work has been published previously in journals including Evening Street Press, Tipton Poetry Journal, Rabid Oak, The MacGuffin, Hole in the Head Review, and Chestnut Review. She is grateful to her monthly poetry groups and the community at Hugo House for their wisdom and support. Her first chapbook, Learning to Breathe, was published in 2023 by Finishing Line Press.
