Sunday Scribble
Topic: Poetry
I wanted to tell you
about walking in the garden
on a warm day in January,
temperature about 65◦ Fahrenheit.
I wanted you to see the grass,
sprouting so green beneath the rot
from last year’s flowers, so green
against the dappled browns,
the tawny spotted droop
of dead iris leaves, dark brown mums
standing erect on woven beds of lilies.
The hibiscus is the largest—
she is woody and tall, white washed
in the sun. Next spring she will be dark,
greenly, obscenely dark,
sporting ridiculous giant red flowers.

Likely you have your own
seeds darkening in drying pods.
You have your own green-wintered grass
to fill your grey-wintered sight.
If you do not have your own,
they are likely blocks away
waiting for you to take a walk,
to pound the sidewalk with more purpose,
to commune and fill your skin with sunlight.