I’m sitting on a sun-streaked deck
admiring this bright patch of heaven
some industrious family has built
here in the dank woods of Connecticut.
A vine-covered hill verdant
against a cloud-free sky.
Split-rail fences, moss-covered stone walls.
An antique wheelbarrow resting by a dirt path
as if it’s owner had abandoned it yesterday
or a hundred years ago.
The sweet scent of cut grass.
The songs of spring birds in the distance.
Nearby, two ancient trees have embraced,
their limbs intertwined,
their leaves one lush canopy
that grants me a gentle blush of shade.
One’s a beech, I believe.
I don’t recognize the darker, rougher bark,
the heart-shaped leaves of the other.
Around me honey bees hover
over flowers planted in terracotta urns,
rusted water buckets, wooden pots adorned
with roosters and rabbits.
I can put a name to the deep red geraniums,
the bright yellow pansies, but not the rest,
and it occurs to me that this would make
a wonderful place to set a poem,
if only I’d take the time to discover those names,
the type of that tree, the species of the other flowers,
even the variety of the still-dormant grapes
that have yet to drop in heavy clusters from the vines,
all those details obligatory to any serious poem.
Before I leave, I may look up the groundskeeper.
Right now, though, I’m going to enjoy
this Ballet of Angels
polonaising through the sparkles
of my half-empty glass.
[Previous published in Vain Magazine]