The wind and the lion roared
as the blades cut a swath
in diagonal, then glory
reigned over the edging, with
pauses to reload
and storm the foundation.
Finally, after putting away
the implements of destruction,
a moment to sip iced tea
the creation and beauty
of living things,
as the breeze perturbated
through the snowmound.
a brief poem inspired by my random playlist while doing yardwork over the weekend.
The Wind and the Lion, composed by Jerry Goldsmith
Glory, composed by James Horner
Forrest Gump Suite, composed by Alan Silvestri
gathering down the slope to the open plateau,
relegated to a collection.
Each one appears then fades
-as sounds of thunder dwindles to nothing-
leaving barely enough to fill a bowl.
Maybe the scratched
glass bowl the color of cinnamon,
that you use to mix tuna and mayonnaise
-but without sweet pickles
it is not a salad-
or the majestic porcelain one –
the best bowl to mix flour, water, and yeast.
Cover with a cloth
and let the dough rise -twice its size –
on the stove counter,
or the one
– it holds the apples and oranges,
and keeps from bruising them, but doesn’t work
for tangerines – so you store them
in the original packaging.
Then the bowls you don’t use –
you flip them over in the cabinet-
that way they don’t get dusty inside,
and you can put the spare words
away in a basket
for the day
or in a drawer
with recipe cards,
paper clips, spare buttons
and old keys.
to those that fly by,
-the dragonflies and cranes-
it is a habitat just like another,
lying just beyond
the cattail marsh
and beneath the mimosa branches,
shallow pond water
collects the run-off
from the adjacent country.
and with no means to drain
while the incandescent sun
hide the carrion
and bottom dwellers.