The impatiens on the screened porch
are spluttering, soaked and indignant,
protesting the face full of rain
blasted by winds unbenignant.
You’d think all the thundering torrents
would make this rank air feel better
but the impatiens will attest to the fact
it just gets wetter and wetter.
The door that’s always open
the walls that don’t enclose
a line of sight unbroken
leafy fragrance freely flows
yet something guards, a border,
protective but unseen —
I fill my lungs and bless him,
the inventor of the screen.
Thanks yet again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
Behold the begonia bloom
jewelry for my screened-in room
lest you think it
an ordinary trinket
you must remember
it’s November.
Oddments 