Underneath the ivy grows,
waving in the summer scene
a rose bush, with its yellow groves
brightening a wall of green.
Branches mingle, mix and blend,
a lovely bouquet forms amid
the ivy vines and thorny stand,
a conchord, growing lovers bed.
One does not concede the other,
twirling round each one’s advance,
rooted, wrapped, and then recovered,
to climax in a maddening dance.
Twisting green, with bloom and thorns
a spooning aftermath adorns.
Two winters ago, we built a snowman
and named him Edgar.
He stood four feet tall,
and leaned slightly forward,
with a stoop.
His stick arms were open wide,
as if pleading for something.
We dressed him in a scarf,
knitted with red and white yarn
and gave him brown eyes
and a crooked smile
lined with pebbles
from the garden.
He seemed to ask,
is this all there is?
One day he was gone.
From the sweat from his brow
he had spread his smile of pebbles
and I picked them up
one by one.
there are tools strewn
here and there
the monkey wrench consorts
with the flat-head screwdriver
I managed to replace the toilet bob,
which keeps the tank from overflowing,
but the shut-off valve will not completely
close, giving a slow drip of water
out onto the blue and green beach towel.
and to think I left this poem
brimming with possibility.