For his birthday， I gave Stanley a hyacinth bean，

    an annual， so he wouldn't have to wait for the flowers.

    He said， Mark， I have just the place for it！

    as if he'd spent ninety-eight years

    anticipating the arrival of this particular vine.

    I thought poetry a brace¹ against time，

    the hours held up for study in a voice's cool saline，

    but his allegiance is not to permanent forms.

    His garden's all furious change，

    budding and rot and then the coming up again；

    why prefer any single part of the round？

    I don't know that he'd change a word of it；

    I think he could be forever pleased

    to participate in motion. Something opens.

    He writes it down. Heave steadies

    and concentrates near the lavender. He's already there.