Except for the raging cherry blossom
across the street
the neighborhood is quiet,
only the orange cat and I
survey the scene.
Walking this way, along the landscape’s edge,
my own mythology spills out
before me
in the slow staccato of a day. Whatever
I take in I am soon to name:
sage, gate, grass, pathway
to the open lawn.
From the pea vines to the dandelions
I am making it up as I go along.
Each step
a worn declaration; Be here, love this.
Under the Hosta’s broad leaves
there are always disappointing secrets;
a snail’s abandoned shell, a start of ivy
from the neighbor’s yard, small tufts
of chickweed
in the shaded green.
Though easy to pull
this weed
spreads fast,
its soft roots breaking
like bundles of loose thread, its union
with the soil
tenuous at best. Hard won.
Here I am again—
What was I thinking? Nature owes me
nothing.
I come here for the facts
and facts are what I get—
from the curled edge of every blown leaf
to the brittle stance
of every downward facing stalk.