In a dream -- bushes overflowing
with open pink roses. Streets lined
with arrogant orange poppies.
On certain days in late Spring
the low sitting storm clouds
emulate the mountains
that never cease to call out to me.
The ground is rising up against us,
cutting back, clump by ruddy clump,
the bits of dirt we lay claim to.
The garden must be tended to
or the weeds will bear out:
leave the acorn squash open
to legions of insects with names
we forgot in a drunken stupor.
Asking the snap peas is no help.
They are passed out like Saturday night barflies
in pools of spring rain.
The roses will out
and the bushes are rich.
The thorns draw blood,
and the petals want more.
Next time the hand will be just as eager
and forgetful of the previous letting.
Their beauty draws us
like trees bend towards the sun.
Location:Cincinnati, OH