Those Olympians of digestion,
with their steely eating power,
the rabbits made me go next door
to borrow a cup of flower.
My next-door neighbor’s floofy Rose of Sharon.
The rabbits can’t reach these.
No doubt they will evolve soon with giraffe necks.
Sunrise in the kitchen
its gold eye warm
through blue-white froth
of last night’s storm
rousing the patter
of wiggly-toed feet
noses to windows
day’s quickened heartbeat.
The porch, the porch!
What marvel, it!
Wordless greeting:
“Come and sit!”
In rocker, swing,
or wicker chair,
we bask inside
in outside air.
Gossip, cookie,
sip of tea,
a honk, a wave,
reverie —
we pretend to read,
shaded from sun,
but the book falls away
and we fool no one.
Unwalled parlor
mooring the ‘hood,
big bear hug
from painted wood,
any porch is
fine by me,
but melon-bedecked
especially!
Many thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.
What is it about this image, dear reader, that seems to be a most splendid greeting for Labor Day? Is it the hoorah of the watermelon red? The thick, disciplined hedge? The leafiness of late summer? The invitation to rest? The certainty that somewhere unseen is a sweating glass pitcher of iced tea with Wyler’s lemonade mix (and lots of sugar)?
I pass it along to all of you in hopes that you too can look at it and think of porches and late summers you have known. I wish you a relaxing Labor Day, dear reader, and a good harvest. May all be safe from Dorian.
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.
They announced themselves in Stravinsky-esque blats over my roof. I rushed to the back door, ready to defend my personal homeland.
And there they were, four monuments to stupidity, clearly dumbfounded and trying not to look embarrassed. It’s frozen, you stupid birds! So much for landing with a splash.
They stood still for several minutes, looking around warily. Did anyone see how stupid we are? When they were assured no one was looking, they settled down in concerted effort to melt the ice with the sheer weight of their foie gras. But it didn’t work, so off they waddled to the riches on shore, aka our back yards, desirous of making breakfast of those riches and of leaving their own riches.
And so did they eventually break through the ice and paddle near me with all deliberateness, eyeing the smorgasbord they thought I had prepared for them.
I have begun to take their brassiness personally. The nerve. Trespassing on my quiet and on my grass. The sound of the amateur French horn is such a match for their manners. I am quite sure at this point that they have their cold beady little eyes trained on me and my house, assessing my defenses.
New home: new world — yes, dear reader?
The hen with the turquoise tail
and watchful ruby eye
busily bustles about
in no way subtle or shy.
Incredulous, unbelieving,
clucking at all she sees
hustling up and down stairs
with never an if-you-please,
she gathers each mote of gossip
slack-jawed, open-beaked,
around and about the condos
astonished and endlessly piqued.
More thanks to the S.W. Berg photo archives,
and to the D.J. Berg store of whimsy.
When the world’s an endless chase
with humans everywhere
it’s good to have a place
to go for head repair.
This message brought to you by Hannah,
my former gorgeous glossy if somewhat haughty neighbor.
In mahogany satin flounce
flirting shamelessly
with vagabond sun
my neighbor’s tree
lifts its buds
coquettishly
tendering rosy nosegay
in leafy filigree.
I live next door
to three little boys
three times the life
three times the joys
(you thought I was going to say noise, didn’t you?)
perpetual motion
hilarity reigns
six little legs
endless ball games
they never stop
they never yield
come winter or summer
my yard is outfield.
Yesterday was sticky hot
the air was thick as mush
but I had to grab my camera
and get out there in a rush.
This visitor, this summer sprite,
this unabashed flirt,
demanded my
attentive eye
and mud upon my skirt.
But would he alight, becalm his wings?
Sit still for just a
mo?
No!
He just kept whirring
blurring
flitting to and fro.
I chased that Casanova
’round marigold and bee
and wondered if my neighbors
had a butterfly net for me.
Oddments 