The agapanthus flowers wilt to heads
upon their columns, as October nods.
Their spinal stems are still supporting shreds
of petals limp between the oval pods.
Like kindergartners new to school, they stand
in clumps before proceeding to their class.
As if to tousle heads, I cup my hand
upon their rounded softness as I pass.
The gardens here admit a plant like this,
with foliage of blades and hollow stalks,
for agapanthus tolerates the kiss
of epidemic snails. My autumn walks
are strides on paper leaves, but what I see
are agapanthus heads for company.