Monument
to lasting function
or rouged and blowzy
extreme unction?
Wizened perhaps
in carburetor
atrophied
in accelerator
rusted, dented,
sedentary
yet with vital
commentary
to give me hope
there’s still some good
within my own
antique popped hood.
I do not know the creator so I cannot give credit,
but I can tell you this is part of a stop-the-car! display in Fortville, IN.
Is it public art or capital joke? In the eye of the beholder, yes?
My front yard may be small
but in gold it’s very big
ruddy, blushing yellows
on every branch and twig.
I raised my trusty camera
to capture golden riot
but was dissuaded from my focus
by the egotist too nigh it.
I had to zoom behind
to my neighbor’s tree instead
because nothing photobombs
like the high and mighty red.
Conundrum suffered yearly:
where to feast my eyes.
Kindling hues come surely
yet always they surprise.
My limber neighbor
my Ansel Adams tree
turned its leaves
and shushed at me
bucking clouds
pugnaciously
all a-whoosh
and restlessly
churning, bobbing
fricatively
I stood as tree whisperer
wannabe.
A pensée for your hail
a pensée for farewell
the pensée at the threshold
jacquard’d sentinel.
A window with a view
coveted prize
a break in routine
rest for our eyes
a tree with some posies
quiets day’s din
but sometimes can startle
by looking back in.
We’ve looked back and forth
Crabapple and I
exchanging world views
in the year that’s gone by.
It’s given the kitchen
a leafy embrace
and made my new house
a cozier place.
Lichened old faithful
steadfast and seasoned
shading me from
a world all unreasoned.
There’ve been times in my life
I’ve known a kind tree
that seemed like kin
and companion to me.
Perhaps you, dear reader,
understand what I mean
and also have had
a friend that is green.
When I moved in here, almost a year ago, I knew that two trees would have to come down. This crabapple is one of them. Now the arrangements are made, and I can’t help the sadness. It’s been so pretty, wrapping around my little bay window. This place is still not home to me, and the crabapple has seemed to know that. I will miss it.
“The Attack of the Killer Tomatoes”
I mistakenly thought was fiction
and I planted this year’s pear tomato
with blithely naïve predilection.
Egad, it grew like Jack’s beanstalk
like some overpowering addiction
forcing the zinnias and chives
to bent and yellowed eviction.
Even the pots on the deck
are muttering gruff malediction —
who knew one little tomato
could become such rabid affliction?
