A willing suspension
of everything,
deliberate slow reach
daring, cautious quest
rising skyward from some restless molecule
within —
if you’re lucky
the grass prickles your back
clover tickles your heels
summer earth pillows your head
if you’re good at it
you seem mere debris
senseless —
the fine art of watching clouds
is not quickly attained.
Practice.
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.
Mama’s smile is a lovely thing
sweet, with prideful charm.
But heed the steel in Mama’s neck:
If you come closer, I’ll break your arm.
Amazement unceasing:
that dad’s my son
better than chocolate
is watching the fun.
A very happy Fathers’ Day to all dads who’ve stood in a shady spot
doing not much with their children,
for whom it will be a forever memory.
Garden icon
myth and man
ubiquitous
as watering can
the story goes
his whispered word
was carried by wind
his followers heard
is he today
sculpted in stone
because he invented
the first smartphone?
With no disrespect intended to Il Poverello, whose bemused expression watches over the pond
from my neighbor’s yard. I just wish he wouldn’t be so welcoming to the chipmunks.
Basking in my sunshine
snuggling on my fence
this manic excavator
is pure impertinence
taunting me, Goliath,
feigning innocence
as though his bright-eyed smallness
masked malevolence
but I know his evil habits
— curse his tiny hide! —
he’s only biding time
’til Goliath goes inside.
The redbirds sent their missuses
a most romantic tweet
no, not hugs and kisseses
but
Let’s go out to eat!
