Beautiful Ruins

A poem about the misfortunes of a first time gardener.

Photo by Pedro Vit on Unsplash

Beautiful Ruins
Ash Kilback 

My first summer as a gardener 
I was an accomplice in a silent crime. 

At first, I was oblivious to the omen 
of the scarlet beetle. Fooled by their red flare 

of seduction. I let them carry on their hours
of sun-drunk lovemaking until weeks later 

when the leaves were sticky with thick globs 
of larvae, I realized what was about to happen. 

In a panic, I Googled How to Save Your Lilies, 
shook their bodies off the stems into a salt-filled

Greek yogurt container to suffocate them. I considered
spreading Diatomaceous Earth in the dirt like a curse 

but left for vacation and never bothered to finish the job. 
I returned home to find a few lilies still alive, but their bodies

scorched, leaves covered in teeth marks. In a fit 
of devastation, I tore the lilies from the dirt, white bulbs

still in tact, and tossed them in the compost, hiding 
the evidence. I guess I can say, the dirt is still

on my hands. I'm guilty of holding the ruins
of something beautiful I could have saved.