. . . poet, essayist, teacher, editor, fiddle player, singer, gardener, cook, house painter, humanist, and maker of mistakes . . .
OK Dawn, here are your words back:African violetssit drooped agains the edges of their pots,victims of my distraction,my failures of water and light.I should tend them like childrenbut I am an empty-nester and selfish.Pileated woodpecker holesand the eternal tap-tapping warnme that there is more to lifethan bacon and eggs, mimosasat Sunday brunch.Bacon is curling in the panin mimic of the edges of the violets against the clay potas if to alert me to my dutyto work harder to care.Coffee is a means, or is it an endto the lackluster attitudeI foster? If a poem were a cupof Joe, would I let it grow coldand stale, ignore its taste?Coffee is not a poem, not a violet,and I am not lazy. I am filled with stuffto make and do and fix. I am thickwith nerves that ravel and frayand no amount of Coffee will fix that.If the weather turns colder,if the ponds thicken too,I may take a break,water something inside, then findice skateslong forgotten blades of gloryand go outside whereno gardens beg for attention,where our Beagle voices the moon.Grace Kelly did not have to waterher African violets, walk a dog,or brew her own coffee. She had a princeto arrange all that and more.But I think she poured her ownScotch.
I love it!
I took this poem to my critique group yesterday and they loved it too, thought it hilarious and poignant, especially the part where the speaker first bashes herself for being lazy, then later defends herself! Oy. I do love a good challenge though and when you threw down the words, I just had to....
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