The path around the backyard

Watered, green escape; a little unkempt but altogether perfect. Garden beds along the path hugging in the grass. Clothesline, birdbath, roses and dogwood. The big pecan tree and shade freckled with sun. Even back then this was already a place protected in the warm trust of memory. Greened my hands with the broken skins of unripe pecans smashed against the tree trunk. Grandpa's Lava soap cleaned my hands, and his knowing it would was better than my hands returned unstained

 

Some Other Time

About life down this hill

Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.


From "Spring," by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Roses are in bloom