we had what anyone would call a perfect day
It fell between a month of rain and craggy skies
It fell to show the truth to lies
It happened on a clear, cool, crisp and vernal day
spring-like because -- if any day we like in spring --
on Saturday we had the thing
itself.
It happened in a time of record breaking rain,
Enough, almost, to go insane.
And when we had that special one to blow the rain away
What happened next was Mother's Day
As almost every one of us recalls:
A paradigm of weather
that universally appalls.
Ah, but to go back to the recollection of that perfect Saturday (especially as Monday kind of stinks as well) here's the unrhymed poem I wrote after encountering my neighbor about a half block away from where our houses abut -- he was walking his dog, I was merely walking myself -- who said to me simply, "So this is perfect."
Here's the poem, in praise of a perfect day.
Selling Points
It's just perfect today
This place, season, day
Folks outdoors waving their hands and jumping up and down
spraying another layer of 'just beautiful' on everything
Every few minutes something new:
Dawn Encounter! Morning Magic! High on Life at Noon!
Evening Splendor, coming to you in both sun and shade
The birds entertain, imitating themselves, spying on their
competitors
Each little house in a postwar burg parked up against its
neighbor
performs its own vernal rendition of the golden hour shine
on the
fruit tree blossoms
Heavy on those closely packed ranks of
low phlox, in alternating shades of violet
An ancient border, from some other Era
of House-holding relaxing into lilac lust,
or, just now, in the door-shade blooms
Modest houses, unfashionable in their want
of many spacious open-plan rooms,
push up to the quiet street
Our own simple squeeze-box of empty-nester clutter
No need for carpet lawns of alien grasses,
low on staying power, high on chemical appetites
Instead, perhaps, a single tree blossoming
with the coin of the vernal realm,
its simple symmetry cupping the sky,
instills its nature on an entire front
its fat-lady diva hour,
clasping deep double-handfuls of ornamental cherry
Other, nearly tree-less blocks compete to border the world
with open-hearted handiwork
Chinese gardeners finding narrow strips of dirt
wide enough
to grow bok choy or leafy style, both prosperous descendants
of the humble turnip,
where others see mere muddy footprints
or something to pave
Melons in later weeks rising like torpedoes
on handwoven frames
No shadows in this sun fest
No traffic jams, or barking doors,
or thoughtless teens, or angry bikers
Wrinkled hands untangling a hose
A sky finding a quiet place for a
gossamer moon
mocking bird warming up
Concert at seven
Earth gave us a continent
an ocean of green, a rainbow of cunning,
experimental hues to dazzle butterflies
And so many gentle hands
to trim the ribbons,
tie the bows.
No comments:
Post a Comment