leading the charge

​
winter is a foreign word
full of frozen death
in other places

here in this upstart garden
redbud dares to open her eyes
purse her lips for the sun's kiss

canyon gooseberry dons his spines
blood red mace to challenge frost
keep spiders at arm’s length
while tender blossoms unfold shyly

ceanothus bursts forth in armies
of tiny blooms around a single branch
rebellion against the rumored freeze
announcement of early spring uprising

small flowers at the battlefront
unashamed and unafraid to shout victory
into the throat of the dying season
trumpeting the triumph of renewing life

pigs and roses

​
would it occur to a rose
that blooming against a pigsty
might be too contradictory
even for devious mother nature

would it occur to a pig
that a blood-red flower
pressing through the lumber
might have a name
thereby providing a possibility
of grunting a request later
for more of the same

would it occur to the farmer
to lay down rose petals
from trough to abattoir
thereby killing two metaphors
with a single verb

what will he think later
when his morning bacon
has a faint, lingering aroma
of rose petals steeped in smoke
​

backyard

​
the bricks along the flower bed
still want straightening
a daily reminder
they should have been set deeper
or in cement

the grass pretends
that bare spots
are beauty marks
and goes about being greenest
under a flowering crabapple tree

the hollyhocks
once purposeful and confined
have jumped the bricks
and stubbornly refuse
to be restrained

sweetpeas wave their frail pastels
in a shy hooray, hurrah
just enough of them
to bouquet our sunday table

chrysanthemums have been replaced
by yellow crook-neck squash
more plant than produce
spreading leaves large and proud 
against the dull gray cinderblocks
that keep them from our neighbor

the backyard of my childhood
slips into my mind
in quiet times
when i need the innocent laughter
of running barefoot 'round the tree
while mother hung out clothes