Last night, a huge, orange, crescent moon hung
low in the west. Smoky sky. This morning a young
osprey circles above the tennis court, then above
the swallows, who seem unconcerned. I woke
in pain, entered this day in pain. A man in the park
paces under the trees, swinging a metal detector
across the grass. All the picnic tables have been
moved together into one open space. A herd
of picnic tables, green on the green grass. Two men
in a cherry picker paint the upper story of a shingled
house. Heat. Bees hum in the foxglove. This garden
is tired. Even the sparrows are slow. Rose petals
litter the ground. The lilies open, beautifully. Why
do they not move me? Why is my heart not pierced?
--
~ SB =^..^=
http://www.sbpoet.com
http://sb.chatango.com/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/sbmontana/
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