Morning draws up the tired day, yet not even dawn.
The barely risen sun climbs upon the horizon stretching
Warm fingers that weave tightly into wisteria climbs.
Roses, garden royals, heads bob on their thin thorny limbs.
Flowers bloom from rains upon our backyard crop,
Turned earth evicts a few worried worms.
I find Solitude wraps me in her fleshy arms, as you
Slam all the doors and get to work, I to the day’s remains.
Everything under gaudy floral suburban trellises,
Midday springs open, anticipated like a jack in the box,
Fuel for clownishly loud, childish laughter. Anachronisms,
Like “What is it that goes around?” (I never knew the answer, either.)
I grabbed onto a wooden broom handle to sweep up
Shards of broken flower pots around the yard,
Lifted up and tossed aside with angry arms.
Morning wags a corrective finger.
Irises and Lilies shrink now rolled up in news.
I feel you merging into the crush of traffic,
Away from home. Here I recover damp, rippled papers,
From the lawn I recognize of a small sample of yesterday.
Night yields quickly, the wings of yellow leaves,
Whispering to catch them as they fall. I can’t save them all.
They crackle out protests, complaining of dead end jobs,
So I end their pain quickly, one humane sweep of my broom.
Dinner table talk consumed by heavier things, the leaves suffocate,
Pained by their attempts at life, your eyes winced tight.
It’s as if ants began taking your plate, crumb by crumb,
Articulate bodies carry back up their hill and down into sand.
Saturday, our yield proves more than we could hope for,
Our reaction time short and weakly practiced, like kids.
We hit at our piñata, both blindfolded and screeching.
No cause for celebration, yet an abundance to my eyes.
Maybe to the neighbors, our crops seem meager and weak.
I’m ashamed to admit this upon closer inspection.
Yet if they only knew, as your eyes peek outside,
Your mouth turns up nearly smiling at our secret.