THE BACKYARD

The backyard

was

a mysterious thing

full of petals.

Silky and velvet

they promised sweet nectar

to sip

delicately.

I could lay down

on green grass

smell it deeply

chew one slender stalk

while spying the solitary bleeding heart

mysterious and passionate

at the end of

the garden path.

The lilac bushes

higher than high

roses and phlox

surrounded me

and I was four

or seven.

There were bushes with

white berries to

pop

under your thumb.

Bushes with red berries

to split with your fingernails and

discover their hidden black seeds

nestled inside

sleeping.

An occasional blossomed eccentric

knowing it’s special

peered

between the commoners

with majestic indifference.

Once I saw

a hummingbird

blue like a robin’s egg

so small

so perfect

I thought I had

dreamt it.

Roses grew in pink

profusion

up the lattice work.

Wearing them

in my hair

at the Fourth of July parade

I didn’t win a ribbon but

thought

I was beautiful.

Those days I was

an innocent dewdrop

a fresh faced daisy

watching my Grandmother

in her blue coolie hat

digging with patient fingers

tenderly

touching

her garden.

Those days have

drifted pass

as swift as wind

carried aloft into

the corner of

my mind

Now I watch this

cool white world and

wait for Spring

eager to find my own

bleeding heart

in the corner of

my garden.