Gardeners’ dedication
is in leafy order writ;
more subtle is the telling
of their heliotropic wit.
I do not know the photographer or gardener or painter of the sign, but I love the photo!
Many thanks to S.W. Berg for passing it along.
The redbirds sent their missuses
a most romantic tweet
no, not hugs and kisseses
but
Let’s go out to eat!
A lather of spring pinks
foaming panoply
peppermint, strawberry, cherry
ice cream canopy.
Uriah Heep
in skulking hunch
lifts away
from scavenged lunch
umble pie
for every meal
wardrobe stark
funereal
counterfeit
his beggar’s ways
devious, wheedling
low sashays
piercing caw
reveals the rub
to wreak revenge
for umble grub.
With thanks and apologies to Charles Dickens.
And more thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
Away to the left
in a swatch of bright blue
patisserie aura
is hidden from view.
It’s easy to miss
if you don’t know it’s there,
but once it’s discovered
it’s a rapturous lair.
In its own mythic nook
removed, set apart,
it revels in oven-birthed
edible art.
And thus did these words
bring tears to my eyne
when I read the decree
on the world’s saddest sign.
Thanks yet again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
And thanks to Rene’s Bakery, in the Broad Ripple area of Indianapolis, for its incredibly wonderful offerings.
I’m lonesome for a garden
so I try the produce table
but Nature never made
a tomato with a label,
so it doesn’t scratch my itch
or cure me of my ails;
I need to meet some worms
and see dirt under my nails.
How eloquent the pie,
sublime the chocolate thrilling,
effusive the buttery crumb
and dainty pastry frilling!
In sweet and wordless voice
they join in birthday fuss
a triple 75
l’chaim!
sticky fingers!
to us!
My dear old high school friends, Bill and Donna, came last week for our birthday celebration.
It was the Mt. Everest of sugar highs. Utter bliss, dear reader.
