Spring has ascended
from its annual resting place
as indicated by
popping bluebonnets
and plants leaning
into sunlight:
east then west
and up uP UP;
they close at nightfall,
roots expanding below ground to soak up
sporadic showers and the nitrogen
they call upon for their own survival;
awaken at dawn, beside
sprouting hints of verdant buds of
what-have-you.
The tackling of unwanted growth
the labor, the struggle, gratifying:
snip prune groom bloom;
you lay down rocks for landscaping limits,
watching the movement of
orange-breasted robins laying eggs
high in a hovering pine tree
who fly down, then up, to feed.
bushy-tailed rodents gather to consume what
other birds’ feeding has dispersed
on the ground below the hanging feeder,
and run away, bellies satisfied;
one tries unsuccessfully to defeat the garden barrier
to consume vines of squash and melon,
and, foiled, jumps
kamikaze
from the fence to the next yard’s tree.
. . .
Three doors down, sun is rising:
fresh adolescent hearts
break
to the sound of digital alarm clock beeps.
to the sound of digital alarm clock beeps.
Sun sets,
and they
joke around like
ruffians from 1979,
fall off skateboards at high speeds,
laugh off their injuries;
do it again the next day:
ride, fall,
break, laugh.
. . .
Next door, contractors work
into the evening
cleaning pool filters
and preparing decks for sun
the sound of hammers
to nails
to wood
echoes down the block:
one, two, three,
twenty,
two hundred:
("Father, why
have you forsaken me?”)
But oh,
"Daddy, daddy,
you bastard, I'm through." 1
But oh,
"Daddy, daddy,
you bastard, I'm through." 1
Removed, you listen,
conflicted by your hammer’s own song:
one, two, three,
thirty-three,
two hundred.
sun becomes hostile, browns
exposed skin and leaf tips.
makeshift overhead sun shades are put in place,
late 90s Billboard hits blasting through cheap speakers
and through fence;
you think, “unfortunate taste.”
you think, “why did they complain
about the noise of the previous neighbors?”
and you think, “tit for tat."
. . .
Still,
best neighborhood
as far as neighborhoods go
and it’s yours
your place in the sun
your roots, temporarily pinched,
now grasp through layers of loam
for down-deep things
that will nourish in you
a blooming peace of mind
reaching east then west,
amidst this
popping,
growing,
consuming,
breaking,
laughing,
cleaning,
building,
browning,
blasting,
all of which
close up by nightfall and
awaken again
at dawn.
at dawn.
………………
©erika haines 2014
1) Plath, Sylvia. "Daddy." The Collected Poems. New York: Harper & Row, 1981. N. pag. Print.
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