melissaahowells
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she coaxes the porch swing into a soothing rhythm with her slipper-ed foot it feels good to linger a little longer in spite of the chill a brisk fall breeze brings a rush of dried leaves onto her front porch steps she smiles to herself declaring they make a noise brittle as the sound of crushed cellophane you can still smell the last of autumn's harvest abandoned fruits and vegetables fodder moldering in the ground rotten tomatoes, embittered gourds forgotten onions her nostrils fill with the dank dark smells ones not unpleasant to a gardener she being a familiar of the earth and all things growing across the street the carnivores await her far-farsightedness prevents her from truly seeing them: a dozier, an excavator a loader, a dump truck she senses their shadows but ignores them there's time left closing her eyes she leafs through the pages of her memories... springs first brave crocuses a chorus lines of tulips and daffodils dancing in the wind the tall bearded irises delicate yet masculine her vibrant girls the rhododendrons of many hues and the old rose bush planted when she first was married next to the lush dark lilac on the corner of her lot so full of heady perfume and secrets at last her bountiful pride and joy a victory garden filled with everything a woman could hope to can, pickle, preserve or share with a neighbor a car pull into the drive a familiar voice calls to her Mother, we're here to take you home but this is my house she knows this my neighborhood my garden my life will it be all changed now except in her memory Mom the papers are signed and you still aren't dressed to go No she thinks strong plants grow deep roots to weather the storms I am that old oak in my backyard I am planted here she opens her eyes to see a modern son-in-law her daughter high school sweethearts they were do they remember how they both used to love my homemade raspberry jam and sit on the porch swing watching the rose colored sunsets there will be no more of that she reminds herself how soon pleasures are forgotten how soon my sweet and simple life is replaced with progress. directly written to the page legal copyright for this poem/for this site title by this writer Meloo/Straight from her Tilt-a-World Melissa A Howells...December 28, 2016 2:57pm pacific standard time. dedicated and with dedication to: The Little Pink House on the Corner Lot of Yamhill and Its Former Owner Mrs Smith. God Bless You Both and Your Little Green Garden. Vote for this poem |
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