The bench I sit on is stone.
A conglomerate perch for the weary.
On it, a dedication is inscribed from a
mother's club.
This strikes me as profoundly sad,
Like a ruined turkey dinner.
Before me, there is a field of grass,
Specked with white cotton fluff.
The fluff is expansive and it reminds
me
Of the down of some young bird.
I cannot help but notice a ring
Of crushed grass, like children played
once
In this remote place just off the road.
There is a stone here, a large boulder,
Out of place, the inscription on it
unseen;
Some forgotten dedication to the earth.
Behind the stone, there is a tree.
It is a smaller tree,
Still growth with youthful rebellion;
It's branches chaos.
The shadow it casts is much too small.
There are many unwieldy branches,
But only sparse shadow.
I see a sapling, tethered by two poles,
Like a mother and father, guiding it
towards the sky.
I cannot help but be reminded of a dog,
One who pulls at his leash,
His silent bark unheard.
The air is filled with cotton down.
It feels like snow in the hot air.
An icy hand touches me on this warm day
And I feel a chill of a summer's snow.
No comments:
Post a Comment